


Drawing Conclusions

by Stoneybrook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Love, University, Young Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 63,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1961169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stoneybrook/pseuds/Stoneybrook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly and Sherlock finally get together but someone from his past threatens to undo all the progress they've made. </p><p>Yes, there's an original character here but I promise it's a Sherlolly story. I don't really favor OC stories myself but I wanted to explore Sherlock's past (before Molly) and why he is the way he is. Also, please don't be put off by how many chapters there are—many are short.  : )</p><p>Note: I own nothing but my OC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Of course it had all come about when Molly was finally over Sherlock—no really, she was. The drugs had done it. All his other faults she could blame on his genius—who could help but be arrogant, impatient and dismissive when their mind worked so much faster than everyone else's? But she could not give him a pass on the drugs even if he truly believed they were necessary for a case. She'd had too many bodies come through the morgue ravaged by addiction. She couldn't watch him do that to himself and hurt everyone who loved him. She didn't want to be one of those sobbing loved ones waiting in the corridor. It was the last straw, as they say, and just like that it was over. There was no relief or feeling of lightness and freedom afterward, only the dull ache of a hole in her heart.

Even after he was shot she didn't visit him in hospital, though it made her feel terrible. She sent a friendly get well card with kittens on the front; she knew he would hate it. It made her giggle to think of. She tried to feel proud of herself for being strong but she knew it was unlikely to last. Figuring distance was the only way out, she began to look for a job at a hospital outside London. She dated some completely nice, completely boring men she met online. She read romance novels to pass the time. She spent another Christmas alone. She succeeded, too well, in avoiding Sherlock. Then one day she saw a face she thought she'd never see again: Jim Moriarty.

"Did you miss me?"

Her first thought was for Sherlock's safety, her next for her own. She didn’t know how Moriarty could have survived but she knew she would not likely be overlooked in whatever new game he had planned and the only person who could keep her safe was Sherlock. She didn't panic or run home to hide, but sat waiting in the lab doing paperwork. When Sherlock turned up soon after, his coat billowing behind him, she knew she was lost all over again. It was as if all the silly, titillating rescue fantasies she'd ever had of him had come true.

Fortunately for everyone the danger was over nearly as soon as it started. It was Jacob Moriarty, not Jim—identical twin brother, nearly as clever, but not as crazy. And currently behind bars—at least for now. Molly went back to her routine of keeping her distance from Sherlock Holmes and ignoring the ache in her heart.

Then he had to ruin it. Sherlock started bringing her coffee when he came to the lab. He helped her with _her_ lab work for a change. He even made small talk with her. She assumed it was a slow, cumulative bribe and braced herself for a particularly large request. When at last it came it wasn't at all what she'd expected: dinner. He wanted to take her to dinner. The old Molly would have stammered and blushed and accepted immediately. The new, wiser Molly stammered and blushed and said she'd check her calendar and get back to him. To his credit Sherlock didn't protest or push. He nodded soberly, wished her a good evening and left.

Molly thought long and hard about that dinner invitation. In the end she accepted out of curiosity and the feeling that after everything he at least owed her a dinner. A voice in her head said, "Molly Hooper, he will destroy you." And he did. Just not in the way she expected.

 ………………………………...

On a Friday night Sherlock promptly picked Molly up at her apartment at the arranged time. He complimented her attire, opened the cab door for her and took her to a restaurant called Angelo's. Sherlock looked nervous, his eyes darted around the room like he was scouting for enemies. Neither of them seemed to be able to think of anything to say. Molly gulped an entire glass of wine and part of a second before she'd even ordered her food.

Finally Sherlock launched into a speech he'd obviously been mulling over all day. "Molly I've noticed that you've withdrawn from me and I find myself missing our friendship. I have so many things to apologize and thank you for that I don't know where to start. I know I've made you angry and hurt you in the past but I hope we can start anew. Despite the fact that an attachment with you will no doubt distract me, compromise me and endanger me I would like to pursue a relationship with you."

Molly finished her second glass of wine and realized she'd been so nervous about dinner with Sherlock that she hadn't eaten all day. Feeling flushed and hazy she had grown progressively angry during his speech. "That's very Mr. Darcy of you. Telling me you want to be with me while telling me all the reasons you shouldn't want to be with me."

He looked puzzled. "I thought I was telling you all the reasons you shouldn't want to be with me."

"Believe me, I know them _all_." There was an edge to her voice that surprised them both.

He scowled and looked down at his untouched plate of pasta. "I guess that's it then."

"Perhaps it is if you're going to give up so easily," Molly replied archly. She picked up Sherlock’s wine glass, swallowed another mouthful and continued. "I've pined for you for so many years and now that you want me you can't even work for it? Just a little? You can't try to make me feel like something more than a pathetic girl who's been waiting for you for what feels like a lifetime? Why should this be easy for you?" she asked with a hollow laugh.

"What do you suggest I do? Bring you flowers and sweets and teddy bears? Take you on lunch dates?" he asked sarcastically.

"I don't need to date you, Sherlock. We've had our lunches of crisps in the lab, our conversations over corpses, I even helped you die once and now we've had dinner. I don't need to get to know the quirks of your personality—I've been inundated with them for years," she spat bitterly. "There's only one area about you I know nothing about—only one place I'd like to go. Why don't you take me to Baker Street? I'd like to see if after all these years of longing for the great and powerful Sherlock there's even a man behind the curtain."

His eyes widened in shock and she gulped as she realized what she'd said. _Now I've done it. Foolish Molly-the-fly has asked to go into the spider's parlor right after jabbing him with a stick. Wait, what? Oh, god, I'm drunk._


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock took her arm and pulled her roughly from her seat. "Let's go then, Molly," he hissed in her ear. "But never forget that I offered to be a gentleman and this was your choice."

Before she could process what was happening she was sitting in a cab next to a hunched, brooding Sherlock Holmes. She was instantly nervous and full of remorse.

"Sherlock..."

"We'll be there soon enough, Molly. Try to contain yourself. I'm sure our driver doesn't want a show," he drawled.

Molly made a strangled sound of fury and crossed her arms. She hoped Mrs. Hudson was gone for the night because she intended to loudly express all her rage and frustration as soon as they arrived at Baker Street.

When they entered the house she marched up the stairs ahead of him. Sherlock quietly closed and locked the door behind them. Without looking at her he hung up his coat then slipped off his jacket.

"Look, I don't care if you are bloody Sherlock Holmes, you have no right to expect—" Molly faltered and began to grow alarmed as he calmly unbuttoned his cuffs and then started on his shirt.

"Sherlock..."

"What are you waiting for Molly? You asked for this," he said with a predatory gleam in his eye.

"I didn't...well I did, but I had too much wine and I didn't know what I was saying."

"Oh, I think you had exactly the right amount of wine to say what you've been thinking for quite some time." Shirt half undone he stepped close to her—too close. Though he was careful not to touch her, his very presence was like an assault. She could smell the spiciness of his cologne and feel the warmth emanating from his body. She could see the flecks of gold in his sea green irises.

"Sherlock, please..."

"Where do you want me, Molly?" His voice was a dangerous purr that made her shiver. "You're the traditional type so I would assume bedroom but then again you've been waiting for this for so long perhaps you'd like to do it right here on the kitchen table—" 

She slapped him. "That's enough, dammit! You've hurt me for years and I'm supposed to smile and take it but the one time I bruise your precious ego, you have to act like this." She put both hands on his chest and pushed him away. There were angry tears in her eyes. "Don't make me hate you."

Sherlock winced and staggered back as if she'd slapped him a second time. He slumped into his chair by the fireplace and dropped his head in his hands. "You should hate me. That's exactly what you should do. I am a weak excuse for a man and a selfish arse and you should run screaming from me." He looked up at her. "You thought before the fall that I was unkind when I ignored you or pushed you away, but people get hurt because of me. John has been in danger more times than I can count. Even Mrs. Hudson has had her share. I would miss them both if I lost them." He shook his head at the thought. "Molly don't you know you are my solace, my sanity? In the past I have held you at a distance to protect you. Now I would just like to hold you, butI know I don't deserve to."

"And what brought on that change? Why now?"

"John has other responsibilities, Mrs. Hudson is getting older. So am I. It takes a great deal of energy to continually hold one's emotions at bay. I find I'm weary and no longer wish to be alone." He smiled grimly and shrugged. "I told you I was selfish."

Stunned, Molly sat opposite him in John's chair. Sherlock admitting to being tired was unusual enough. Admitting to being lonely was unimaginable. Lonely was something she knew a great deal about.

"Wouldn't I be in danger?" she asked in a small voice.

"Yes."

"But that's a risk you're willing to take?" she asked, brows raised.

"No, Molly, that's entirely up to you. But it seems the cat is rather out of the bag. You probably should take that job in Surrey. People will forget our connection eventually."

"How do you know about the job in Surrey? Oh, never mind." She rubbed a hand across her eyes. "Would you forget eventually?"

"No. But I'll be OK," he said in a small voice she'd never heard from him before. 

They sat without talking until the silence filled the room like a balloon.

Finally Molly stood and walked toward the door. Sherlock felt as if his heart would implode when she turned the doorknob to leave, but she didn't touch it. Instead, she slowly removed her coat and scarf and hung them next to his. She kicked off her shoes and lined them up neatly by the door. She squared her shoulders and turned to face him. Sherlock released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Molly?" he whispered and his voice broke.

"I find that I've been wanting you and loving you for so long I don't know how to stop. Every rational part of me is telling me to go, but I can no more walk out that door than fly to the moon. And I don't care if I endanger or compromise you so I guess that makes me as selfish as you. Looks like we're stuck with each other." 

He stood slowly, never taking his eyes from her. He stood in front of her and lightly rested his hands on her shoulders as if he thought she would break under their weight. "Whatever comes?" he asked, his eyes glittering.

"Whatever comes," she replied and stood on her toes, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

………………………………...

Sherlock was amused. They were half undressed in Sherlock's bed and Molly was leading or trying to. Though she didn't speak, there was an instructional tone to her actions: kiss me here, put your hands here, unhook my bra like this, touch me here. She was being incredibly slow and gentle but there was a tension in her that spoke of impatience. _Ah, even she has heard the rumor,_ he thought.

"Molly, I'm not a virgin."

Startled she pulled back. "You...you're not? Oh, of course. Me, neither—oh! Sorry! You knew that." His devastatingly deep chuckle rumbled through him and she closed her eyes and took a breath. "Irene Adler..?" she asked when her eyes opened again.

"No."

"Oh. Ah..." Molly looked incredibly confused and intrigued and, to Sherlock, utterly delicious.

"Hush and lie down. I've been waiting a long time to taste you, Molly Hooper."

A blessedly long while later, Molly lay panting and sated and indescribably happy. Next to her a very naked, very sweaty Sherlock Holmes was breathing deeply, eyes closed, satisfied smirk firmly in place. She gazed at his lean frame and said a silent thank you to whomever had taught him how to do what he just did.

Fortunately for her, he spent the rest of the weekend showing off all manner of erotic skills to a baffled and appreciative Molly. On Sunday evening she finally insisted on going home to get clean clothes for work the next day, though it took a couple more hours to extricate herself from him.

"I need a good night's sleep, Sherlock. I have a long shift tomorrow."

"Fine,” he sighed in exasperation. “You mortals and your sleep."

"Will I see you at the morgue?"

"If there's a case."

"Oh." She looked disappointed.

"Maybe I'll bring you some crisps," he purred.

She grinned. "Just remember, now that I know what you can do, it will cost you more than crisps and a compliment to get body parts from me." Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she poked him in the ribs.

"I've created a monster," he teased, kissing her.

She giggled and kissed him back. "See you then."


	3. Chapter 3

As it turns out there was a case for Sherlock on Monday. Lestrade and Molly were waiting outside the morgue doors speaking in hushed tones when he arrived.

He gave Molly a brief, private smile that made her blush. "I...I haven't started examining the body, we called you as soon as..." She looked at Lestrade.

"It's a Jane Doe. She was found in a cooler of a medical school down south of here. They thought the body had been donated but no paperwork could be found and no one knows where she came from. No visible cause of death but..." Lestrade coughed uncomfortably. "They sent her here because there was a note for you...on the body."

_Another criminal taunting me. How tiresome._ Sherlock rolled his eyes and swept past them through the doors.

"So where is the note?" he asked impatiently.

 "Um, here," gulped Molly as she began to unzip the body bag. "She's a young woman early twenties I'd guess."

Sherlock's eyes fell to the pale face as the zipper exposed it. At lightning speed his brain processed the visuals: twenty years old, blond hair in braids, a trace of freckles across the nose, slight cleft in the chin. Pretty. His blood froze as a strangled noise escaped his throat. He was vaguely aware of Molly calling his name as he staggered backward. He closed his eyes tight and the face of the dead girl swam beneath his eyelids. Only now she was a living, breathing girl—smiling and happy and waving goodbye. _No, no, no. Why now?_  He took a few deep breaths and opened his eyes. Lestrade and Molly stared at him with concern. He was pale and shaking from head to toe.

"You know her, don't you?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock opened his mouth but nothing would come out. He tried again. "Her...her name is Sophie Gordon. Age 20. Missing since 1998." He swallowed hard. "You should contact her parents. They've been looking for her a long time." His voice cracked and he looked away from them.

Lestrade looked incredulous. "Sherlock, this girl doesn't look a day over 20 yet you say she's been missing for over a decade? How can that be?"

Obviously distraught, Sherlock looked right through the detective as he said, "Could I have a moment alone, please?"

"Sherlock?" Molly's voice trembled.

_"Please."_

Molly and Lestrade exchanged looks and exited the morgue together.

Lestrade busied himself with calling in the information to see if they could pull the Gordon file. Molly stood in the corridor, her back against the wall as the joy she'd felt this morning ebbed away and an uneasy feeling took its place. She stole glances at Sherlock through the glass in the doors. He hadn't moved. He just stood there looking down at the body lying on the table, but there was an angle to his posture that said he was not OK; that he was sinking into trouble. _I should call John,_ she thought. _He needs John._ Hands trembling she pulled out her mobile and dialed the number but it went to voicemail. She left a terse message then hung up and went back to peering at Sherlock.

Inside the morgue Sherlock forced himself to look at the body again. Sophie looked exactly as she had the last day he'd seen her. Her long blond hair was still in tight braids, her skin smooth and unaged. His eyes skimmed down her body and something inside that he thought he'd vanquished long ago, cracked open and bled pain throughout his belly. Lightly cut into the pale flesh of her abdomen were the words "Sherlock Holmes this is your fault."

………………………………………….

Molly jumped as the lab doors opened and Sherlock stepped out not making eye contact with anyone. "Lestrade, I'll go to the Yard with you." He cleared his throat but it still sounded rough. "Take care of her, please, Molly."

Molly nodded. As he turned to go, she said, "Sherlock..." He paused but didn't turn around. "If there's anything you need...." His chin dipped in acknowledgement and he pushed through the doors and was gone.

Molly looked down at the girl as she prepared to take photos and do a surface examination. She didn't want to autopsy her until her family had a chance to see her. She sighed. _Another mystery woman on my table that Sherlock knows._ This was someone from his past—maybe from university. Someone he cared about; she knew him well enough to know that. She stared at Sophie's still, youthful face and desperately wished she could ask her the millions of questions swirling in her mind.

She had just begun the external examination when she heard the door open again and looked up to see Mycroft Holmes striding in. _How did he find out so quickly?_ He paused when he saw Molly with the body and approached more slowly. Nodding once at Molly he turned his gaze to Sophie. As the pathologist watched, his mouth set into a grim line and a hint of sadness crept around his eyes.

When he sighed, Molly dared to ask, "Who was she...to Sherlock?"

Mycroft looked at her intently and she shivered. "Normally, I would leave it up to my brother to answer personal questions, but in this case..." He shook his head and went on, "Sophie Gordon was Sherlock's first love." He shrugged as if to say there was too much there to put into words.

"Oh."

"I would have called her Sherlock's only love but it seems you two have begun a...relationship." He arched an eyebrow at her. "Miss Hooper, it was after her disappearance that Sherlock first turned to drugs. The mystery of what happened to her was nearly his undoing. He is going to need support. He will never come to me for help and Dr. Watson is occupied with his new family—I believe you've already tried to contact him to no avail." He looked down at his hands and finished more softly. "May I rely upon you?"

"Yes, of course. Anything, um, whatever I can do."

Mycroft smiled at her sadly, gratefully. His eyes dropped to Sophie's face once more before he turned to go.

Molly looked at the body on the table and wondered how she was going to rescue Sherlock from this.


	4. Chapter 4

On a cold January afternoon a much younger Sherlock Holmes wandered out of his university lab, coatless and aimless, across the tree-lined campus of his university. He was pondering a troublesome chemistry formula whose solution continued to evade him and hadn't eaten or slept in days. _If my mind palace were ready I wouldn't have this problem. I know there is something I’m missing,_ he grumbled to himself. He decided it was time to put more effort into his memory device—immediately. He spread out in a quiet spot under a branching oak tree and closed his eyes.

Sherlock stood on the front steps of what he called his mind palace. It was new and nebulous, flickering in and out. The imposing front doors opened on a long hall with a few doorways on either side: one for family (kept firmly closed as much as possible), one for mathematics, one for biology, anatomy and so on. He didn't get very far down the hall before dozing off.

He opened his eyes to find a pair of gray eyes looking into his. They belonged to a young woman who was leaning over him peering at his face then, apparently, sketching in a black book.

"Sleeping beauty awakes and I didn't even have to kiss him," she said with a cheeky wink.

He frowned. "Who are you?" he demanded, his eyes taking in everything. _Third year art student—pencil graphite on her hands, paint under her nails. Twenty to twenty two years old. Perhaps took a gap year—volunteering or working for tuition? Slight Scottish twang to her accent, probably not noticeable to anyone else. Dimpled cheeks. Slight cleft in chin. Pretty. Wait, pretty?_ _That is useless information. Entirely subjective,_ he chided himself. _Female. 20-22. Blond hair. Blue gray eyes. Average height. That is useful and correct._

His rapid deductions were over in time to hear her answering: "Oh, no one, just an art student in desperate need of a model. Willing or unwilling or in your case unconscious."

When she grinned her whole face lit up and something in his abdomen flipped. _What was that?_ He scowled. "I wasn't asleep. I was thinking."

"Well, you've a fine philosopher’s purr then. Sounded like a freight train." She turned to look up at the cloud-darkened sky. "We better get going. There looks to be a storm coming." She stood and offered her hand which he ignored as he unfolded himself gracefully from the grass.

"We?" he asked haughtily as he towered over her.

"Wow. I wasn't expecting you to be that tall," she said looking up at him. "By the way, my name's Sophie."

"Good for you," he muttered rudely just as he was splattered in the face by the first fat raindrop.

Sophie smirked. "Well, I guess I'll see you later." She ran a few steps and turned. "Watch out for karma Sherlock Holmes. And try not to be so grumpy."

He watched, scowling, as she ran toward the side entrance of the art school building fumbling for her key card. It began to rain in earnest and he cursed under his breath as he began to run. He easily caught up with her just as she wrenched the door open. Sherlock enjoyed the look of surprise on her face as he tumbled into the shelter of the building after her. "I'm not grumpy," he huffed. "And how did you know my name?"


	5. Chapter 5

Sophie realized she was gaping at him. The rain had plastered his black curls to the sides of his pale face and his white button down shirt looked painted on.

She had been heading back to her studio from an art history lecture feeling discouraged and a bit depressed when she first spotted him across the lawn. The previous semester had been a lonely one; her best friends at school were older and had all graduated and moved on last summer. It didn't help that she'd harbored a crush on one of them but had never had the nerve to tell him. Lately nothing was inspiring her and the mental block frightened her. She needed a muse. When she'd approached Sherlock lying on the grass like a marble sculpture she just couldn't resist trying a quick sketch. She marveled at his black curls, lush lips and the unusual angles of his face. When his cat-like eyes opened to reveal sea green it was almost too good to be true. Maybe he _was_ a muse sent to her by the gods. Now those strange eyes were looking at her with suspicion, but all she could see was his shirt, fully soaked, and clinging to a very fit torso.

"If Mycroft sent you, you can tell him I've had quite enough of him spying on me—"

"Um...who?"

"My brother," he sneered.

"Good lord, Mycroft and Sherlock? I'd really like to meet your parents." She giggled.

"Don't change the subject," he said flatly.

"Oh, sorry. I know your name because it's embossed on the cover of your notebook." She pointed at the black book he hadn't realized he was holding. "By the way, who has their name embossed on their notebooks?" She smiled sweetly. "Does your mum put in all your pants as well?" _Dammit, Sophie boys don't like smart arses._   

He ignored her jibe and frowned accusingly at his notebook, which indeed his mother had given him just last Christmas, as if he blamed it for giving him away. "Yes, well…good observation. I need to be going now," he said as the rain shower suddenly turned to a downpour.

"Yeah, good luck with that." She bit her lip and hesitated before offering, "You could stay. I can make you a cup of tea in my studio. It's the least I can do for taking advantage of you the way I did. The rain will probably be over soon."

His eyes narrowed but he said a curt, "Fine," and followed her upstairs to a small room stuffed with canvases and paper and old furniture. Paint covered every surface and brushes sprouted from pots and cans that were tucked everywhere. The rain beat upon the windows which admitted a only a dreary, gray light.

"This place is filthy." His nose wrinkled.

"Yes, well. It's art school—beauty from chaos, I guess. What do you study?"

"Chemistry, anatomy, biology."

"Ah, so you spend your time in sterile white labs? No wonder this is bothering you. I'll give you my cleanest stool to sit on, though that isn't saying much."

Ignoring her he instead draped himself across an old chaise lounge she'd found by the theatre department dumpster and drug back to her studio. She giggled as he sat like a king on a throne watching while she switched on the electric kettle and washed out two mugs in her grungy sink.

“Aren’t you cold? You’re soaked and you’ve no coat," she asked over her shoulder.

“Transport,” he said dismissively.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning all that counts is this,” he pointed to his head. “All physical needs can be overcome if your will is strong enough.”

“ _All_ of them?”

“Yes.”

She looked dubious and amused. “OK, if you say so. Doesn’t sound like much fun. Here's your tea."

He took a sip and made a face. "This is truly the worst tea I've ever tasted."

Sophie rolled her eyes. "Well it's hot at least." She tilted her head and studied him. "You're a prickly sort of person aren't you?"

"So I've been told," he replied dryly. He glanced at the window. Unfortunately, the torrential rain wouldn't allow him to escape any time soon.

They sat in awkward silence a few moments. "May I see it?" he asked at last.

She looked startled. "See what?"

"The sketch. Of me."

"Sure. No doubt you will find grievous fault with it," she sighed with a shrug.

He gazed at the open sketchbook she handed him. Her sketch was very loose, the lines looping and overlapping as she sought to capture the contours of his face. But the essence of him was there and yet he looked serene. Serene was something he certainly never felt. _How strange to see myself through someone else's eyes._ He closed the sketchbook and handed it back to her without a word.

"There was your chance to condemn my efforts."

"I..." he began when a deafening crack of thunder sounded overhead.

Sophie squealed and put her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut.

Sherlock blinked. "Surely," he drawled, "someone your age isn't afraid of thunder. You know it's just hot and cold air—"

"Yes, I know about the air and all that. I still don't like it." She wrapped her arms around herself protectively.

He frowned. He was really no good at comforting people but as he was in her space, drinking her awful tea he felt he was supposed to make some effort. "Since I seem to be stuck here, why don't you draw me again?" he asked. "Improve upon your previous scribble? It won't bother me while I'm working on my mind palace."

Sophie glanced at the window as another, more distant, rumble of thunder threatened. "Yeah, OK. Wait...your _what_?"

"My mind place," he continued arrogantly. "It's a mental device for remembering anything. You build rooms and label the doors and compartments with what you wish to remember and delete what you wish to forget. It's what I was working on when you interrupted me."

"Oh, you do it in your sleep?"

"I was not asleep," he said firmly.

"Hmm."

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms.

"Why palace? Why not house or attic? Sounds so posh." She wrinkled her nose, teasing him.

"Palaces are big and so is my intellect," he smirked.

She rolled her eyes and groaned. "Your ego must fill every nook and cranny. What sort of things do you ‘wish to forget’?"

"Useless information. What I ate for dinner. Yesterday's weather." He narrowed his eyes at her. "This room."

She gave him a wry smile. "Me?"

"What?"

"Will you delete me after you leave here?" she asked with amusement.

"Most likely."

"Ah. Well, I don't have the ability to delete memories so I guess you’ll be stuck in there awhile." She chuckled and picked up her pencil. "Build away, just sit still, please."

"I am sitting still."

"No, you're not, you're talking."

Sherlock frowned but remained silent.

The sound of her drawing coupled with the pouring rain seemed to put him in a trance. He closed his eyes and the hall of his mind palace rose clearly before him. When Sherlock stepped out of his reverie and back into reality, Sophie was sitting quietly staring at him, hands folded in her lap.

"I thought you were going to draw me?"

"I did draw you. You've been sitting there for four hours. I ran out of paper, my hand cramped, my eyes teared up, but I still have enough drawings of you for an opus." She was still studying him with a puzzled expression. There were charcoal smudges on her face and her eyes were red rimmed and weary.

"Yes, well. Ahem. It was a productive session for both of us." He stretched his cramped muscles.

"Are you some kind of genius then?" she asked quietly.

"Some people say so. Some say...other things."

"Interesting. Don't meet too many geniuses these days."

"Certainly not in art school."

Sophie frowned. "What does that mean? Artists can't be geniuses?"

"Of course," he patronized, "but it is a different sort of genius isn't it? You're judged by the subjective nature of the art world. Your talents cannot be quantified or measured in an objective fashion."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "So what sort of research, or whatever, do you? "

“Cryobiology with a focus on cryopreservation.”

“Cryopreservation? Like freezing people to bring them back sometime in the future?” she asked incredulously.

"Precisely."

"Hmm." She was still frowning.

"What?"

"Nothing." She looked at the ceiling.

"Obviously you have something against it."

"Well, I do. I think it's stupid."

"Stupid?" He sputtered. "Some of the most brilliant minds in the world are working on cryopreservation."

"Including yourself."

"Yes, including myself. What's your issue with my area of research?"

"Well, first I think when it's your time to go, it's your time. You don't get do-overs. I also think it's a science for procrastinators. Why not use those superior intellects to find the cures now instead of freezing people to be cured later?"

Sherlock momentarily looked like he hadn't considered that before.

She flashed a crooked smile. "Well look at that, I guess geniuses can be judged subjectively, too."

"How many people have you saved with art?" he huffed.

"None, probably, though I donated some paintings to an auction to raise money for the homeless. And I sometimes teach classes at the shelter." She shrugged. "No amount of studying will turn me into a brilliant scientist. My mind is just not wired that way, but I do what I can."

Sherlock pondered her sullenly. The gloom in the room suddenly lightened as the sun broke through the clouds. "It looks like the storm is over so I can be on my way now." He stood up brushing himself off.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," she said with a bemused expression. "Have fun deleting me."

He only inclined his head at her and strode out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

Dismissing Sophie's obviously uninformed opinion of his research, Sherlock felt something akin to giddiness as he stepped out into the sunshine. _Four hours!_ He'd never been able to focus on his mind palace that long before. The rooms he'd created, the progress he'd made was a tremendous breakthrough. He felt as though he'd finally been able to build a strong foundation for his memory device and after today he'd be able to easily expand upon it.

He was wrong. Try as he might, he found it impossible to concentrate enough to stay in his mind palace for more than 10 minutes at a time. The walls refused to stay solid. The names of the rooms slipped from the doors to the floor. He tried everything to recreate the frame of mind he was in when he had his breakthrough. He made sure to try at the same time of day, took a nap beforehand and listened to a recording of rain during. Nothing worked.

His frustration led to wandering; wandering led back to the art school's grounds—he didn't like to ponder what forces had compelled him there. His eyes scanned the students walking about but he found them all vaguely disappointing until he spotted a hunched figure with a long blond braid crouching under a tree. She would have been nearly invisible there in the shadows to anyone else walking by, but little escaped his notice.

Sophie was squatting in a thicket of ancient trees and over grown brush. He approached silently and peered over her shoulder at what was holding her attention. She was sketching a dead bird lying in the curled brown leaves. Each feather had been drawn with care and fine attention to detail. Through her drawing he realized the brown feathers were subtly striped. _She saw something I didn't. Interesting._

"I see you've become even more desperate for models of late," his deep voice taunted her.

Sophie gasped and fell over, her pencil and sketchbook falling to the ground.

"Oi, you scared the life out of me." Her eyes were wide with fright until she recognized him.

"Hardly. The fact that you could speak to make such a statement contradicts it immediately."

Sophie's mouth opened but she seemed to think better of her reply and only sighed. "You could at least help me up," she said and thrust her hand at him.

He scowled at it but she didn’t lower it. He reluctantly took her hand and pulled her up, releasing her as soon as she was standing.

"What's the matter? Still think girls have cooties?" she chided, brushing leaves from her clothes.

"What?"

"Nothing. What brings you to this side of campus? Looking for another place to nap?"

"Just walking. Why are you drawing a dead bird?"

She laughed. "The live ones don't stay still long enough. And, as you said, I'm desperate for models again. Would you like to volunteer?" she teased. She was surprised when he only shrugged.

"I've nothing else on at the moment," he drawled and swung his eyes away from her.

"Hmm, I thought you were going to delete me," she said.

"I didn't."

"Made an impression, did I?" She grinned at him.

"I can always change my mind," he said, flatly.

She took his arm and pulled him toward the art building. "You won't," she said with a smirk.

Two hours later and five more rooms were added to his mind palace. It was a productive session indeed. Sophie managed to get some work done as well—she painted a portrait of him. This was fortunate for Sherlock because she needed to finish it and asked him to come back. He sighed and acted put out but secretly he was pleased that he wouldn't need to come up with an excuse to return.

……………………………………….

The next morning Sophie unlocked the door of her cramped studio to find a strange man waiting for her. He wore a tailored suit and a bored expression.

"Uh, hello, how did you get in here?" She looked around the tiny room as if expecting to find another door had suddenly materialized.

A bland smile was his reply. "Miss Gordon, I presume?"

"Yes. Who are you?" She asked warily.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes. I believe you know my brother."

Sophie studied the man before her. She could see some resemblance, but where Sherlock's face was all bizarre angles, this man's was round with a long, slightly hooked nose. He had none of Sherlock's luxurious curls; in fact, his hair was thinning. "Sherlock? Yeah, what about him?"

"I have a proposition for you that will benefit us both. It will give you money, which you need, and me peace of mind, which I desire."

Sophie narrowed her eyes. "How do you know whether I need money or not?"

"I make it my business to know things about the people who interact with my family. And I know you are paying your own way through university with various...jobs and have accumulated a great deal of debt. Wouldn't it be nice to solvent?” he asked condescendingly. “Or go buy yourself some new paints?" He looked around the room with distaste.

Sophie disliked him more and more each second. She put her hands on her hips. "And just what would I have to do to earn it?"

"I want you to be a companion to Sherlock and report back to me how he's using his time." He said it as if it were the most normal request in the world.

"A companion? What are you suggesting there, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft managed to look even more bored. "Use the term friend if you'd like, though Sherlock isn't the type to make or keep friends. Followers...gawkers perhaps; like people who enjoy looking at train wrecks and car accidents."

"Excuse me? That isn't exactly kind to Sherlock or me—"

"600 pounds."

"What?"

"600 pounds a month. Is that enough?"

Taken aback, Sophie stared at him with her mouth open.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Wait a minute," she spluttered. "How do I even know I'll see him again? I don't know anything about him and I'm not going to go looking for him."

"You won't have to. He's drawn to you for some reason.” His eyes raked her with a puzzled look. “He'll be back."

"So you just want me to do what I've been doing?"

"And report to me."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

He reached into his posh suit pocket and pulled out a card. "Send written correspondence to this address weekly. It will be easier than meeting face to face on a regular basis. Sherlock may decide to follow you someday."

She bit her lip and looked out the window. "I can't spy on him, he wouldn't like it."

Mycroft smiled a pained smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Think about it. If you accept, write to me by next Friday with your report. If you refuse, simply do nothing." He shrugged as if he couldn't care less.

He turned slightly and picked up a black umbrella she hadn't noticed before. Inclining his head he disappeared through the door as she stared at the card in her hand.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft was right. Rarely would a week go by without running into Sherlock. He would find her alone at the library or a coffee shop and though he always acted as if it were a coincidence, she never saw him if she was with friends. For her part, she thought if she had to have a stalker at least she was getting paid to do so. She had decided, in the end, to take the money, but instead of sending a letter once a week, she sent a drawing with cursory notes in the margins. It made the job feel more like an art commission and less like mercenary spying. Plus, she hoped it annoyed Mycroft that she hadn’t quite followed his rules. The drawings must have been acceptable because the money would show up in her bank account each month. She had no idea how he did it and didn't care to ask.

Getting to know Sherlock was a slow endeavor. That he was arrogant and brilliant didn’t take much work to uncover, but she could glean little else from their interactions. They rarely conversed—most attempts ended in her feeling slightly insulted and him looking bored. When they were together he would either add on to his mind palace while she sketched him or work silently next to her while she read. They would part with neither a handshake nor a promise to meet again, but she knew he would find her.

Mycroft had said Sherlock was drawn to her, but she couldn’t imagine what on earth it was he needed from her. She wasn’t even sure he liked her. Happily, her creative block was over and she found him to be an attractive and strangely willing model. On the whole, Sherlock presented her with an intriguing puzzle and she found that she looked forward to seeing him materialize out of a crowd to join her for coffee. It was better than sitting alone. Who could blame her if she also took a little satisfaction in the envious stares she got from other women when they were out together?

She once asked him if he had a girlfriend. The disgust on his face was hilarious—the exact way little boys look when asked the same question. Sometimes, if they were in a public place and he was in the right mood, he would tell her about the strangers around them. He called it deduction. He claimed he could tell what people did for a living, where they were from, if they had children or were having affairs just by looking at them. Those times he would talk and talk and she would listen in amusement to his rapid-fire baritone expound for an hour or more. She vaguely wondered if he was trying to impress her.

One day at a coffee shop, he stopped mid-deduction and looked at her sharply. "You don't believe me. You think I'm making it up."

Suppressing a chuckle, she replied, "Well, I've really no way to verify your statements have I?" She arched a brow at him.

His cat eyes narrowed to focus on her before rapidly moving from the top of her head to her fingertips. She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise.

"You're an only child, your father is from Scotland but you weren't born nor have ever lived there. Your mother is English. You pay for your own schooling because your parents, though now middle class, come from poverty and are very tight with their money and don't see your choice of studies as worthwhile or a productive way to earn a future income. "He leaned closer and smirked. "They strongly hint that you should find a suitable, aka wealthy, mate while you're at university to support what is likely to be a failed art career—"

Sophie's eyes widened. "He told you that," she whispered, picturing the dour face of Mycroft Holmes.

"Who told me?" Sherlock sat upright, immediately suspicious.

"No one. Forget it." She shook her head and started to gather her things. "I have to go."

Sherlock said nothing but scrutinized her retreating form until she was out of sight.  _Not good?_

For the next two weeks Sophie avoided being out alone so she wouldn’t have to see him. It was terrifying the way Sherlock had laid out her whole life before her. Mainly she cringed when she remembered the words “failed art career.” He was absolutely right about her parents not supporting her dream. And if he could see all that, what else could he see? Would he be able to tell that she was spying on him?

………………………………….

At the end of two weeks Sophie decided that she was over it. She went to her favorite cafe alone, ordered coffee, sat at the most conspicuous table on the patio and waited. An admirer of old movies, she giggled as she pictured herself as Fay Wray waiting for King Kong to arrive.  _Oh, and here he comes right on cue._

Sherlock avoided looking at her as he approached and smoothly sat at her table. He didn't offer a greeting and neither did Sophie. She took out a book and began to read. He pulled out his black notebook and began to scribble chemical equations. An hour later she closed her book and prepared to leave.

Sherlock said quietly. "You should have let me finish."

She raised her eyebrows. "I'm not making you leave, you can stay as long as you like."

He rolled his eyes and huffed. "Last time when I deduced you, you should have let me finish."

"Why? So you could tell me that I'll go on to die penniless and alone? No thanks."

"Because I would have added that you are hard working and dedicated and show considerable talent and really have no need to rely on a spouse to support you."

"Oh."

"Yes, ‘oh.’"

"Maybe you should have led with that," she replied.

He smiled. "Maybe."

She pulled her bag over her shoulder. "So I'll see you then?"

"Perhaps."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock felt strangely excited as he scanned the school grounds for Sophie. It was a beautiful, crisp day and the quad was full of people enjoying a break from the dreary weather. He frowned, disappointed, when he finally spotted her sitting on a low wall with two other students, but he approached anyway.

"Come with me," he announced imperiously as if the others weren’t there.

Sophie’s mouth opened in shock. “Sherlock?”

He clasped his hands behind his back to hide his agitation. "I have something to show you."

"Now?"

He huffed and rolled his eyes. "Yes, now."

"Uh..." She looked at her friends who were peering at her with curiosity. “You go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

“Fine,” he muttered and stalked off. As soon as he was a little distance away the questions started.

“Who is that guy?”

“He’s totally fit, Sophie. Where have you been hiding _him_?”

Sophie blushed. “Um, it’s complicated and no where. He doesn’t usually come around unless I’m alone.” She realized how strange that sounded so she added, “He’s shy.”

“Mmm, I’d like to teach him to be outgoing...” one of her friends said suggestively.

“Nina, you’d like to teach every guy to be outgoing,” Sophie chided. “I’ll see you randy girls later.”

“Have fun! Do everything I would do, only do it twice.”

Sophie waved them off with a rude hand gesture and hurried over to where an impatient Sherlock was waiting.

“Shy?” he sneered. “Just because I don’t want to talk to an insipid coed with an eating disorder or one who likes to shoplift on weekends doesn’t mean I’m shy.”

“What? Oh my god.” Alarmed, Sophie stopped walking and looked back at the women who were still whistling at her and making catcalls. “Which one does which?”

“Neither. I was joking. Let’s go.”

“Sherlock!”

Sophie was out of breath by the time they reached the imposing science building. Sherlock had never brought her to the lab where he spent much of his time. His work space was in the windowless basement which was very cold and very white.

"OK, what's so important that you need to bring me here?"

"An infinite supply of models," he said and dramatically pulled the sheet from a blue-tinged cadaver.

Sophie screamed and covered her eyes. "Oh, fuck! Sherlock, why would you show me that? Shit!" Pushing through the doors, she ran from the room.

Sherlock blinked, looked back at the shriveled body lying on the table and blinked again. He covered the body and stepped into the hall to find a distraught Sophie sitting with her back to the tile wall clutching her chest. She wasn't crying but her eyes glittered.

"Not....good?" he asked.

She snorted and looked away, wiping her eyes.

"I thought...some artists used to draw from cadavers. I got the idea when I saw you drawing the dead bird." He waited.

Of course in the bizarre world inside Sherlock’s brain, this was a good idea—his way of being helpful. She looked up at him. "Yes, you're right. But you didn't warn me and I didn't ask to draw cadavers." Her eyes squeezed shut and she took a breath. "Look, it's just that my grandma died late last year and we were really close and seeing that body..."

Ah, sentiment. Sentiment plus dead grandmothers plus cadavers equals not good. "But that wasn't your grandmother,” he said, still trying to find logic in the situation.

Sophie huffed in frustration and thought for the hundredth time that talking to Sherlock was like talking to an alien. "No, but it made me think if her. I was the one who found her. She'd been dead a few days." She shuddered at the memory. Standing shakily she gave Sherlock a watery smile and touched his arm. "You were trying to do something for me. That's nice…I think. I guess I'm just not ready for that."

He nodded and watched, chin down, as she trudged away from him down the corridor.

"Sophie—"

She turned. He'd never called her by her name before. "Yeah?"

"How about a heart instead?"

The rest of the afternoon was spent with Sophie making sketches of a rather fresh human heart, which she apparently _was_ ready for, and Sherlock working nearby. Having her in the lab was an entirely new experience for him. This was his domain and it was all about work here—running tests, analyzing data, solving problems. She was definitely not part of that work but he'd never before felt such a complete sense of contentment while running his experiments. He refused to analyze the feeling. It was certainly not sentiment.

The peace and quiet was broken by a question. "Does it ever bother you? Experimenting on people?" Sophie asked.

"No."

"Do you ever think of who they were? What kind of life they had?"

"No." He continued making notes and did not look up.

"Hmm."

He looked up in exasperation. "What?"

"I thought you'd be more curious."

He sighed and put down his pen. "I can tell by their fingertips what they did for a living, by their complexion where they lived. But honestly whether they were a rubbish collector or a barrister or the queen does not interest me. I'm only curious about how the formulas I concoct react with their tissues and enzymes, etcetera."

"People in general don't interest you, do they?"

"Not really."

"Why am I here?" she asked.

He froze a moment then shifted uncomfortably on his stool. "You are slightly more tolerable than most."

"Hmm."

"Except when you do that!"

She smiled and went back to her drawing.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock Holmes did _not_ skulk about in shrubbery, he was merely observing the striations of bark on a particularly old yew tree. If Sophie happened to be sitting unaware nearby with a female friend, well, that was nothing to him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw them rise from their bench and embrace. The friend walked off but Sophie remained. _Finally,_ he thought as he strode over to her. If Sherlock had cared about more than whether Sophie was alone or not he might have noticed something of the 'not good' variety had just occurred; he might have seen that the woman who departed was extremely upset and shaking. He did, however, notice as he approached that Sophie was sitting at an odd angle and staring at the ground.

He moved to stand in front of her and looked down at her with his signature impassivity.

She took a few shuddering breaths and wiped at her eyes. "I don't feel like drawing right now, Sherlock. Go find another non-genius to amuse you." She stood up but sat back down again and buried her face in her hands.

Her words stung a bit and he tilted his head to study her. He tried to think of anything improper he may have done lately that would cause her to be upset, but could come up with nothing. He sat at the other end of the bench and asked, "Is something wrong?" _Yes, those were the right words to use._

Sophie was quiet a minute more. "My friend...something happened to her at a party. She's very upset. I think, she may have been…" She shook her head to clear it. "She woke up undressed in a strange room. She doesn't remember going in there or lying down. She doesn't remember anything."

"If students would stop drinking themselves into stupidity their memories would be infinitely better," he drawled.

Sophie glared at him and her hands clenched into fists. "Lenni doesn't drink, she only had a soda. Please refrain from blaming the victim or you'll become one yourself."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. He'd never seen Sophie angry. Idle threats aside, it was an interesting experience. Not pleasant exactly, but mildly exciting. He stood up and took Sophie's arm. "Come on. Let's go."

"What? Where?"

"Take me to your friend. I want to ask her some questions."

"She won't talk to you, she won't even talk to the campus police."

"Well, that's showing intelligence—they're less than useless. As for talking to me..." He turned his intense gaze on her. "That's where you come in."

………………………….

An hour later they emerged from Lenni's dormitory.

"Who were you in there?" Sophie asked with something like awe.

"What do you mean?" he replied, avoiding her eyes.

"You were nice and even kind to Lenni. You don't really do nice or kind."

"I'm nice to you."

"Well, I thought I was the exception."

He smirked down at her. "Think a lot of yourself do you?"

Her answer was an impatient glare. "So what do you think? About Lenni?"

"What do you think? Come on, _observe_."

"I don't know. She was drugged...maybe?"

"Why do you say 'maybe'? It's more than obvious."

"Because...I guess I don't like to think someone could be that horrible."

Sherlock stopped and faced her. "People can be far more horrible than that. You put yourself at a dangerous disadvantage if you think otherwise," he said harshly.

Sophie's eyes grew wide. "Of course, I know people can do terrible things. I choose not to dwell on it or else I wouldn't be able to get out of bed. I can't just turn my heart off like you do," she scowled and pushed past him. "Anyway, you're the most dangerous person I know."

He wondered what that meant while feeling strangely flattered. He caught up to Sophie in two strides. "So she was drugged. _And_?"

"And... " She faltered.

"And raped." He finished for her.

Sophie let out a sigh. "And most likely raped." She blinked back tears. "Now what? If she won't report it..."

"Universities are notorious for covering these things up. They'd much rather ignore the drinking and debauchery that goes on after hours, but we can do something. If you're up for it."

She cast a suspicious glance at him. "Like what?"

He said nothing, but smiled a smile that made her shiver.


	10. Chapter 10

It was a Friday night when they put his plan in motion. There was to be a party in the same house in which Lenni had been assaulted and Sophie and Sherlock were going—him as guard, her as bait.

Though he was careful not to show it, Sherlock was momentarily startled when Sophie opened her door to him. His eyes raked her from head to toe. Her long hair was down and flowing in golden waves around her shoulders. Parted to the side, it swept over one eye in an alluring way. She had makeup on that made her almost look like another person—her eyes looked bigger, her mouth fuller. It was somehow obscene and enticing at the same time. The dress she was wearing hugged her curves and was short enough to show a lot of leg. Last, she was wearing impossibly high platform shoes that made her tall enough to look him in the eye.

"Well?" she asked.

"I…short, it's very short. That's good, I suppose, if that's what passes for party wear these days."

She tugged at the hem of her dress, pouting. "Well, I'll blend in better than you. You look like someone's dad."

He looked down at himself and frowned. He removed his jacket, untucked his white shirt and rolled up his sleeves. She bit her lip as he unbuttoned the top two buttons and ruffled his hair until it was an unruly mop. _God, he is so weirdly gorgeous,_ she thought.

"Hmm. It would be better if you had on trainers," she offered.

"I don't own any _trainers_ ," he said the word as if it tasted bad.

She shrugged. "Say you just got off work as a waiter then."

"Are you going to be able to stay upright on those shoes?" he looked at them dubiously.

"I don't honestly know, but looking off balance is part of my job, tonight, right?" she giggled.

He rolled his eyes. "Now remember—"

"Yes, I know. Don't drink anything unless I poured or opened it myself. If someone pushes a drink on me, just pretend to drink it or spill it or something."

"Right. And act natural—whatever natural is at party. Make yourself seem vulnerable—you had a fight with your friends and they left you. Perhaps you're a little sad."

"What if no one picks me?"

He looked at her. _I don't think that will be a problem._ "We'll keep an eye out for other victims. If I think someone is trying to drug you I'll give you the signal and you start acting like you're going to pass out. I'll come whisk you away and we'll test the sample from your cup back at the lab. If we get separated and someone bothers you, use the pepper spray I gave you until I can get there."

She giggled.

"What? Why are you laughing?"

She laughed harder. "You saying 'whisk' and me trying to picture you whisking me anywhere—"

"Sophie, this is serious."

She stopped smiling and nodded soberly. "Sherlock, is this going to work? Hadn't we better call the police?"

"No. It'll work." There was an excited gleam in his eye she'd never seen before. "Trust me."

Sophie laughed nervously. "Ok..."

…………………………………………………………..

Sherlock leaned crookedly in a dark corner of the room, drink in hand. To anyone at the party he looked like someone who'd had one too many and needed the wall to hold him up. But from beneath his heavy eyelids he was closely watching Sophie. She was currently across the room laughing at an upperclassman with movie star good looks and an easy, confident smile. The music was too loud to hear what they were saying but Sherlock could read their lips.

It seemed the student's name was Lucas and he was a rugby player. He had a soft cast on one foot and was being propped up by crutches. He was telling Sophie about his recent ski trip to Switzerland and, humbly, his lack of skill on the slopes. She was flushed from laughing and at one point reached out and touched Lucas' arm. Sherlock felt a knot twist in his stomach. _I didn't come here to watch her flirt,_ he thought sourly.

In the telling of his skiing misadventures Lucas gestured wildly and dropped his empty cup. Sophie set down her own cup and reached for his, forced to bend down carefully by her short hemline. Sherlock was so distracted by the view of her exposed thigh he nearly missed something crucial. As she knelt to help out the apparently disabled athlete, Lucas quickly waved a hand over her drink and dropped something in. _Oh, you're good,_ Sherlock couldn't help thinking, _pretending to be lame and harmless so they let down their guard._

Just as he started to step over and alert Sophie and collect the sample he was confronted by two thick-necked rugby players that looked vaguely familiar.

"Oi, aren't you the sod who told everyone that we were closet pillow biters in the quad last semester?" shouted the shorter of the two.

"I don't know," he sneered, "haven't you been told that by more than one person? It’s so obvious. It could have been anyone."

The stocky men looked at each other, incredulous.

"No, wanker, it was definitely you. I remember your arrogant fucking mouth." The taller one shoved him backward against the wall.

“Then you’ll remember I said ‘homosexual’ not ‘pillow biter.’ Do get it straight.” Dealing with the situation before him and keeping an eye on Sophie was not easy. He looked up just in time to see her taking a long drink. _No!_ He tried to push past the glaring pile of meat in front of him but they shoved him back again.

"You owe us an apology."

He squared his shoulders and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry." They smirked at him. "I'm sorry," he couldn't help but go on, "that society is such that you dare not publicly declare your love for one another."

The smirks fell from their faces as nearby party goers sniggered. A glance at Sophie showed her holding her head and frowning. Lucas was touching her arm in mock concern. When her panic-stricken eyes met Sherlock's he failed to notice the fist aimed at him until it made contact with his left eye. There was a moment of darkness highlighted with stars.

He rubbed his eye and glared at them. "You shouldn't have done that." A few expert moves and some bruised knuckles later the two closeted rugby players lay in a heap at his feet. Somewhere in the back of his mind came the hope that Sophie had witnessed his fighting prowess, but by the time he'd extricated himself from the melee she was gone. A pair of crutches stood in the corner where she'd been.


	11. Chapter 11

Molly hadn’t seen Sherlock since he walked out of the morgue the day before. Her texts went unanswered and Baker Street was empty when she had stopped by after her shift. She tried to focus on her mountain of paperwork instead of his whereabouts. Though she technically wasn’t supposed to put Sherlock’s cases ahead of any others—everyone deserved equal attention—she had moved Sophie's tests to the top of the list. To ease her guilt and keep busy she was trying to get as much done on her other cases as she could.

Biting her lip she paused and picked up her phone again. “Her parents are coming today. —MH” she texted him one last time with the forlorn hope he’d answer.

The swinging doors opened and Molly looked up hopefully as a pale and harried John Watson entered the lab. “Molly, I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. Mary has been ill and was just admitted upstairs—“

“Oh, no, John! Is she OK?”

“She will be. She’s had stomach flu and became dehydrated. They’re giving her fluids. So what’s going on? I can’t get Sherlock to return any texts.”

“Oh, um, yes. They found someone he knows. She’s dead—well, of course she’s dead, she’s here.” She took a deep breath. “She was his girlfriend at uni and she's been missing since 1998.”

John’s mouth fell open. “Sherlock had a girlfriend at uni? A real one this time?”

Molly’s mouth turned down. “Yes, a real one,” she replied a little defensively. _I hope I’m a real one, too._

“Did he say anything? Tell you about her?”

“No, it was Mycroft who told me.”

John’s eyebrows went up. “He was here?”

She nodded. “He came right away.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the rest of what Mycroft had said. John had enough to worry about already.

“So where is Sherlock?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have tox results and preliminary findings for him soon so he’ll likely be here before too long. I won’t do the autopsy until her parents have seen her. They’re coming today.”

“Sherlock had a girlfriend who has been missing for over ten years. Wow, what a story. Maybe that explains some things about him. I couldn't tell you what, though. Ask me when I've had more sleep.” He yawned. “Look, I’m going to go back up and sit with Mary. I won’t be far. If Sherlock comes in, tell him to call me, yeah?”

“Yes, of course. Give Mary my best.” She smiled. “You two will have a baby soon…” she said quietly as if thinking out loud.

A goofy, proud look washed over John’s face and he beamed. “Looks like.”

“Go take care of her. I’ll let you know if I see Sherlock.”

………………………….

At 3:30 Lestrade arrived with Sophie’s parents. Molly had years of experience with grieving families but usually it was fresh, raw grief; an unexpected heart attack, a tragic accident, overdose, a long illness, murder—she had seen them all. But Sophie's parents had the hollow, resigned look of people who have been waiting a long time to be told something they already know: their loved one is dead.

Before she draped and wheeled Sophie's body into the viewing area Molly tucked an extra sheet around her abdomen. She couldn't say if she'd done it to protect the young woman's parents or Sherlock. Either way, she didn't want them to see the crude message cut into her skin.

The older couple held each other as they looked at their daughter. "She looks just the same," they whispered. They filled their eyes with her the same way new parents try to memorize their newborn's face. Instead of the first time seeing her, this would be their last. They touched her hair and tears ran down their faces. Finally Mrs. Gordon nodded and turned away and, after a moment, her husband followed. 

Lestrade led them out and as they turned down the corridor they came face to face with Sherlock. Lestrade cleared his throat uncomfortably, "Ah, Sherlock." He’d studied Sophie’s file and knew that for a while Sherlock was the prime suspect and that her parents strongly believed he was responsible.

When Mr. Gordon saw Sherlock his eyes widened. “Well, if it isn't Sherlock Holmes. I’ve seen your name in the papers. Still going for fame and glory, playing at being a detective? But you couldn’t find  _her_  could you?” he said between clenched teeth.

Sherlock winced but didn’t look away. Sophie’s father was a shadow of the man he'd been when Sherlock had seen him last. Despite the loathing in his voice, Sherlock could see there was no fight left in the man—he was tired and relieved that the waiting and wondering were over.

Sophie’s mother spoke next, almost too quietly to hear. “You…you really didn’t have anything to do with this, did you, Mr. Holmes? You’re not the one who hurt her?”

He looked at her intently. “No.” He’d said that word over and over after Sophie disappeared. He’d said it so much that the word had lost all meaning, so much that he wondered if maybe he _had_ done something to her and forgotten it—deleted it even. “I’m sorry.” He’d said that many times, too.

“I’m sorry, too,” she said.

He didn't know why, but hearing those words from her filled him with a kind of relief.

Glaring, Mr. Gordon took her hand and led her away down the hall. Lestrade shot Sherlock a sympathetic smile before following them down the hall and out of the hospital.

Just as Sherlock turned to go, the morgue doors opened and Molly stepped out and almost crashed into him. He grabbed her to keep her from falling. 

“Oh! You’re here. H…how are you?” she stammered. 

"I’m fine." His voice was rough and gravelly as if he'd been smoking too much and his eyes were red-rimmed.

“Sherlock...I’m so sorry. I know who she was to you. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but you know I’m here for you, right?”

“Thank you, Molly.” He patted her shoulder but he was looking right through her.

“Will I see you tonight? You need some rest.”

He looked away. “Please let me know when you have the tox results.”

She sighed and smiled weakly. “OK.” _How am I supposed to help him if he won't let me?_

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

"Sophie!" Sherlock dove through the cheering crowd. "Sophie!" Eyes searching the room frantically for her, he spied a staircase and ran toward it, taking the steps two at a time. At the top of the landing he heard voices and froze.

"Not bad for your first, Rollins. You owe me, I could have kept her for myself. Maybe when you're done with her I'll have a go.” The others sniggered and Sherlock peered around the corner. Lucas was standing in the hall with several other males. "Well, go on then. Become a man already." They shoved a skinny boy into a room and shut the door.

"Let's go down and see what else we can fish up," Lucas said. They turned and spotted Sherlock.

"Toilet?" He slurred and leaned heavily against the wall.

Lucas jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "You look like shit, mate."

"I know, dude," said Sherlock in an American accent as he stumbled past them.

"Fucking yank." They sneered and thumped down the stairs.

As soon as they were gone he wasted no time in kicking open the door of the room they'd just closed. Sophie, still dressed, lay sprawled across the bed unmoving. A very young, very scared looking underclassman sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room.

"I didn't touch her, I swear!"

Sherlock blinked and found that one hand had dragged the boy to his feet by his shirt and the other was balled in a fist ready to hit him.

"I didn't. I swear! None of this was my idea." He was crying. Sherlock dropped him to the floor like a sack and went to Sophie, checking her eyes and pulse. "What did they give her?" he growled.

"I don't know. One of the guys mixes it in his room."

Sherlock fished two sterile vials out of his pocket and thrust them at the boy. "Go get me samples then dump the rest in the toilet. Now!"

The boys face turned a new shade of terrified. "They'll kill me if I do."

Sherlock chuckled in a low, deadly way. "They might. But I definitely will if you don't."

……………………………………….. 

Sherlock put Sophie in the cab and climbed in after her. He patted his pocket to make sure the samples were still there.

The cabbie stared at Sophie curiously but only shrugged when Sherlock rolled his eyes and said disgustedly, "My girlfriend can't hold her liquor. _Women."_

He decided to take her to his flat where he had the equipment to collect a blood sample. Besides, no one who might see her go in would know her which would save her some annoying questions later. He kept his fingers on her pulse the entire way, her slow steady heartbeat calming the panic and adrenaline he had felt moments earlier.

He carried her up the stairs and put her gently on his bed. He unwrapped a clean syringe and found some sterile vials while she lay softly breathing on his pillow. She winced only slightly when the needle went in but otherwise didn't move. He tried to focus on the task of drawing blood, but the scent of her was distracting—soap, shampoo and what he assumed was just her. He released the tourniquet and put a bandage over the tiny hole in her arm.

"Sophie," he called and patted her cheek but she was completely unconscious.  _She won’t be going anywhere anytime soon._ He pulled off her ridiculously high shoes and removed her long earrings and rows of bracelets then stood back, looking at her.

Her short skirt was partially rucked up above her thighs showing off teal knickers. Her hair lay around her head in a tangled, golden halo and her skin looked smooth and soft. He reached down to sweep a lock from her cheek and found himself tracing the delicate whorls of her ear. _Interesting._ A dark thought rolled through his brain like a thundercloud: _I really could do anything I want to her while she's in this state—she would never know._ Just then she sighed and turned away from his touch.

Sherlock stepped back in horror and shook the thoughts from his head. _Delete. Delete. Delete._ He looked at the vials in his now shaking hand and looked back at the completely vulnerable girl in his bed. He pulled a blanket over her to her chin and put the vials away.

Pacing the floor in agitation. He didn't need anyone to tell him this was not good. She trusted him and he had put her in danger with his stupid plan. _Whisk her away, indeed._ Now here he was taking her blood, touching her without her permission and...thinking of worse. He'd already violated her more than the boy back at the party. It was only logical that she was going to be very angry when she awoke and likely never to want to see him again. He didn't like how that made him feel so he did the only thing he knew to do when faced with such emotional drama—he took the blood and drug samples and fled to the solace of the lab.

When Sophie woke later in the morning he was gone. She bolted upright in the unfamiliar bed and immediately patted herself to see if she and her clothes were all still there. Heart pounding she looked around the room. On the bedside table was a glass of water, two aspirin and a note. “Nothing happened. I've gone to test the samples. Stay as long as you need. —SH”

She sighed in relief and flopped back into the bed. Her head was spinning and she could remember nothing of how she'd gotten there, but she found herself strangely untroubled. If there was anyone who wouldn't touch an unconscious woman, or a conscious one for that matter, it was Sherlock Holmes. _I only hope I didn't snore._ She stretched, rolled over and buried her face in his pillow, inhaling the spicy smell of him, before stumbling out of the bed. She took the aspirin and drank the water then looked around slowly, giving her swimming head time to catch up with her eyes.

_So this is Sherlock's lair._ She was intensely curious about what clues to the man could be found in his personal space. It was a studio apartment in what she could tell was an old building. The ceiling was high and beamed. The room was very masculine, his furniture old but comfortable: a leather chair by a tiny fire grate, a large wooden desk, a massive tarnished brass bed. There were periodic charts and undecipherable chemical equations pinned to the crumbling plaster walls. The windows looked out onto the deserted street and cast light across his very untidy desk. She glanced at the papers covered with Sherlock's scrawl of writing but none of it made sense to her. She refrained from snooping in his drawers, telling herself that since he had been trustworthy with her she would do likewise.

Sherlock returned to find an empty bed and the shower running. He started making tea while she finished bathing and fought every impulse to picture her naked and wet in his shower. When she stepped out of the bathroom his breath caught. She was wearing his dressing gown and presumably nothing else.

She looked down guiltily. "Sorry! I took the liberty of a shower—oh my god, what happened to you?" she pointed at his bruised eye.

"It's fine. Sit down, the kettle's just boiled," he gestured to his chair. Instead of sitting, she chose to take a closer look at his eye. He could smell his soap on her and see the peaks of her nipples through the front of the thin fabric of the robe. He felt a tightening low in his belly. _I want…No. Stop._

"But how did you get that? Did it happen last night—because of me?" she asked, distraught.

He shook off the wayward thought. "Hmm? No, it had nothing to do with you. I ran into two gentlemen who had been previously enjoyed being the brunt of my wit and wanted an apology..."

She arched an eyebrow. "Which you didn't give."

"Which I didn't give," he smiled grimly.

She sighed, "You should put some ice on it, at least."

Steering her to his chair he pushed her in it. "Never mind, how do you feel?" he asked, taking her pulse.

The touch of his warm fingers on her wrist felt incredibly intimate. "Fine. Groggy, I guess."

"May I?" he held up a small flashlight.

"Sure."

He shone the light in her eyes. "You seem to be back to normal, but you may be sleepier today than usual." He handed her a cup of tea.

It was strong and hot and extra sweet. They sipped quietly for a while then she asked, "Why is there a bandage on my arm?"

"I needed a blood sample."

"Ah." She frowned.

"It couldn't wait. I don't know how quickly the body metabolizes the drug. I started the testing in my lab while you were unconscious."

"So I was definitely drugged? I don't remember much, what happened?"

"Lucas," Sherlock growled the name, "was pretending to need crutches to appear harmless. He dropped his cup on purpose and when you picked it up he slipped something in your drink."

“Seriously? Oh, god. What an arse! And then you got me out of there?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Actually it was at that point that I received this," he said pointing at his bruised eye. "When I was finally able to extricate myself from that...complication, you were no longer in the room."

Sophie's eyes widened. "What? Where was I?"

"Upstairs in Lucas' roommate's room." Sherlock began to pace. "It seems you were a gift for him to lose his...virginity."

With one hand over her mouth and the other pressed to her stomach, she closed her eyes. "I think I'm going to be ill," she mumbled behind her trembling fingers.

"Nothing happened. I daresay the young man in question felt nearly as terrified as you do now. He never touched you. He was sitting as far as possible from you and crying," he sneered.

She blinked. "Really?"

"Yes. He told me who was making the drug and procured a sample of it for me."

Sherlock watched her as she sat thinking and biting her lip. She looked pale and strained. "I came so close..." she whispered.

"Sophie—"

She held up a hand to silence him. "Look Sherlock, I want to say something."

_This is it._ He braced himself for dismissal. She was about to rightly reproach him for being so capricious with her safety in what, hindsight showed, was clearly a foolish plan at best. His set his face to neutral and waited.

She looked up at him with big gray eyes and said, "I'm sorry."  

He blinked. "What?" Surely he hadn't heard correctly.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I messed up. I didn't 'observe.' And you got clobbered and had to rescue me and bring me to your fortress of solitude." She  gestured at the apartment.

"My what?"

"Never mind. Just...thanks for getting me out of there, ok?"

His brow furrowed in thought. "I'm the one who should be sorry. It was my plan and it nearly didn't work. You could have been..." he wiped a hand over his eyes.

"Raped?" She quirked an eyebrow at him but her mouth was grim. "Why can't you say it?" she tried to tease but her voice cracked. "All's well that ends well," she said with a shaky sigh.

She looked down at her hands then back into his eyes. They stared at each other unmoving for several long, heavy moments. Right then what Sophie most desperately wanted was for him to cross the room and hold her and reassure her that she was safe. Couldn't he tell? Couldn't he read it on her face like all those other things? _Deduce me and do it,_ she willed him, but Sherlock stood like a statue. Finally his eyes slid away and he cleared his throat. "You probably should get dressed."

"Yeah, probably." She stood up, still looking at him. "So, are you? Sorry?"

He considered a moment. "No," he said with a lightness he did not feel. "I got what I needed in the end. No real collateral damage. Except my eye."

She smiled sadly and nodded. "What do we do now? With the evidence?"

"I'll run tests and then I'll have a better idea what we're dealing with."

"Ok. I'll just get dressed and leave you to it." She padded to the bathroom.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock was deep in thought when Sophie left his flat and didn't look up as the door closed behind her. She'd had no alternative but to put back on her clothes from the night before. The dress smelled of cigarettes and was a little short for a Saturday morning but with her hair pulled in a ponytail and a freshly scrubbed face she didn't think she stood out too much. Out on the street she realized she had no idea where she was until she spotted a familiar tower from campus in the distance. She headed toward it wincing in her uncomfortable shoes. Three blocks into her walk a black car pulled smoothly up next to her and stopped.

The window rolled down to reveal a bored looking woman not much older than Sophie. "Mycroft Holmes would like to see you."

Sophie sighed. "Now? I don't really feel—"

The woman rolled her eyes. "Just get in."

Scowling, Sophie climbed into the backseat of the car and sat down wearily. She was too tired to be interested in Mycroft's female lackey and instead leaned her head against the tinted window and shut her eyes. She was taken to a nondescript office in a large, nondescript building.

"I like to pride myself on rarely being wrong but it seems I was mistaken about you," Mycroft said as she walked in and sat down.

"Really? How so?" She tried to sound as bored as he looked.

"I'd hoped you would be a steady influence on Sherlock. Instead reports tell me he has abandoned his research, preferring to spend much of his time with you. Last night he was seen engaged in a brawl at a party after which he took you, in a very inebriated state, back to his apartment...where you stayed the night."

She shifted in her chair and tugged fruitlessly at the hem of her dress. "I wasn't drunk and nothing happened and it's none of your business anyway." Sophie's head began to throb.  

"It is when I'm paying you. I grow displeased with your influence on him. You have become a distraction and your time is done. I have a check here for 3,000 pounds. I want you to leave Sherlock alone so he may refocus himself appropriately."

Sophie wiped a hand across her eyes and said nothing for a moment. She thought about the money and she thought about how her life had changed and become more complicated since meeting Sherlock. And more interesting. Quietly she asked, "Sherlock is an unusual person, isn't he?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Yes."

"Brilliant but awkward with people?"

"Yes."

"And you are the same?"

He arched an eyebrow at her. "If you like."

"Because of how you two are, I thought that you paying me to spy on him must be some weird Holmes brother way of wanting to look out for him because you cared. And since I already liked hanging out with him why not take the money to pay my tuition? So I did. But now I think you're just a controlling tyrant instead of a brother who shows his affection in strange ways. You didn't buy me, Mycroft Holmes and you don't get to tell me to go away."

She stood up, her platforms putting her at eye level with the man in front of her. "I like Sherlock. He's not always an easy person to like but he's interesting and not like anyone I've ever known. I'm not going anywhere."

Mycroft sighed. "Very well, Miss Gordon I shall simply wait you out. Sherlock gets bored easily. Someone like you can't possibly hold his attention for much longer."

Sophie winced and realized she'd thought the same thing many times; that one day Sherlock would find a far more satisfying way to spend his free time. "Well, at least it would be his decision and not some git of a brother's."

Mycroft lifted his chin to retort but then his expression softened infinitesimally. "Miss Gordon, he'll only break your heart," he said quietly, almost kindly.

"My heart, my choice," she answered. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

The black car dropped her off exactly where it picked her up and for a moment after it departed, Sophie stood dazed and wondered if the whole thing had happened at all. She thought about the last thing Mycroft had said. Could Sherlock break her heart? Did Sherlock have her heart? _Oh, god, he does,_ she thought sadly. _But even if he wanted it, he wouldn't have a clue what to do with it.  
_

Perhaps because the last 24 hours had already been so bizarre she wasn't surprised when Sherlock appeared at her side as she continued down the block. They walked in silence all the way back to her room, him steadying her occasionally as she teetered on the platform shoes.

……………………………………... 

Sophie sat on her bed and pulled off the torturous sandals as Sherlock paced up and down her room.

"I followed you." He stopped and looked at her. "I mean I realized I should have walked you home so I was trying to catch up. I saw you get in the black car and knew that could only mean one thing: my brother." He gritted his teeth.

"I hailed a cab and followed you into the building. I heard everything—well, most everything. I left near the end because I was ready to throttle Mycroft and it would have benefitted neither of us for him to know I was there."

_So he didn't hear the broken heart part?_ " Are you angry with me for taking the money and spying on you?" She bit her lip and looked at her hands.

Sherlock gave her a small smile. "No. I've always thought you seemed more intelligent than most people I deal with. That only confirmed it. Besides, I'm quite sure you had very little of interest to tell him. "

Sophie laughed in relief and shook her head. "I take it back about wanting to meet your parents. I think two Holmeses are enough for me."

"Wise decision," he chuckled then turned sober and started pacing again. "I lied earlier. I coerced you into the most foolhardy plan last night. The risk for me was minimal, though I will be sticking to lab work after this, but the risk to you… You were the brave one and I nearly let you down. I _am_ sorry."

She gave him a weary smile. "Apology accepted."

A strange expression that might have been gratitude flashed across his face and he turned to look out the window. "You don't have a roommate," he declared suddenly to change the subject.

"Huh? Oh, no, she dropped out two months in and they never replaced her. Not that I'm complaining. You wanna move in?" She teased.

He gave her a sidelong look. "And disturb your fortress of...what was it?"

"Solitude. You really don't get any pop culture references do you?"

"What is pop culture?"

"Ugh." She threw herself back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. "He said you weren't doing research. Is that because of me?" she asked quietly.

"Of course not. Please don't negate the things I just said about your intelligence," he smirked. "Evidently my brother's agents aren't keeping up—I've switched to different research."

"Oh, really?" She looked up with a wry smile.

"Yes, I'm working on creating chemical therapies for abnormalities in mitochondrial DNA."

"Wow. I have no idea what that is but it sounds impressive. And your move had nothing to do with what I said about the foolishness of freezing people?"

He blinked. "Of course not."

She smiled. "I'm starting to be able to detect when you're lying," she said smugly.

"I doubt it," he scoffed.

"You have a tell."

"I do not," he protested, looking alarmed.

"Hmm."

"Oh, for god's sake, what is it?"

"Ha! As if I'd tell you so you can correct it. No, sir." She crossed her arms.

He scowled and looked away but there was a flicker of a smile on his lips.

"You know," she continued, "I think this may be one of the longest conversations we've ever had."

He frowned. "We talk all the time."

"No, you talk all the time. That's not the same as a conversation."

He rolled his eyes then made a show of studying the drawings pinned to her walls. Many of them were of him which filled him with a strange pleasure. He rather enjoyed seeing himself through her eyes.

"Sherlock, am I...are we...friends?"

He cleared his throat and resumed pacing. "Do you think we're friends?"

"I asked you first."

He cut his eyes at her. "I don't really have friends."

Her face fell.

"I suppose," he finished, "that makes you the first."

She rewarded him with a smile that lit up her face and made him feel warm in places he'd forgotten he had.


	14. Chapter 14

The fluorescent light overhead hummed in the quiet, windowless room. Sophie clutched Lenni's trembling hand under the table as they listened to the female detective read over the procedure for making a statement. She looked at them with sympathy. "I'm not going to sugar coat it, it will be hard on you if you press charges. Going after popular members of a university sports team for sexual assault will bring a lot of backlash on you. We'll do our best to keep your names out of the press until trial, after that…" She grimaced.

"I don't want to," blurted Lenni. "I don't want to make a statement or go to trial. I just want to finish school and move on." 

"Are you sure, Lenni? After what they did?" Sophie asked.

"Yes," Lenni nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Sophie was disappointed but she could understand her reluctance. She didn't want to be harassed either, but when she remembered Lucas smiling in her face while plotting the whole time to drug her, she wanted him to pay.

"I'll give a statement," she said. "I'll do it. I'll press charges."

"You're sure?" 

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, Sophie," Lenni sobbed.

"Don't be. Don't be sorry for anything. I'm doing this for me."

She looked at the detective. "Will my charges alone be enough? They didn't actually assault me but I was drugged."

"I don't know. You'll have to prove intent and it won't carry as much weight. It'll be your word against theirs."

"Even though I have a witness?"

"You have a witness?" she asked surprised.

"I have two." She smiled.

………………..

In the hall outside the interview room, Sherlock was keeping a very close watch on a very nervous Kyle Rollins. The boy looked ready to bolt any minute. When the detective opened the door to call him in, Sherlock firmly took his elbow and all but pushed him into the interview room.

Sophie sat next to Sherlock while Lenni visited the toilet to wash her face. 

"I don't trust him," muttered Sherlock. "He's too afraid and his parents will get a lawyer who will advise him to stay out of it, I'm sure."

"But he's giving a statement."

"It won't matter if he recants and refuses to testify."

"Well, there's still you."

"Yes, but we need him to corroborate that he brought me the drug samples and who was making it."

Sophie frowned and told him what the detective had said about backlash from other students. "I'm scared, Sherlock, but I have to do it don't I? I don't want those bastards to keep doing this and getting away with it."

Sherlock's face was grim and his eyes had a cold hard look that worried her. "Would you care how they were punished as long as they were punished?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Answer the question."

"No, I guess, not. You're not going to do anything stupid are you, Sherlock?" she asked fearfully.

"No, just unpleasant," he said, looking as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.

………………………………...

Sherlock slouched in his chair in a nondescript office in a nondescript building as his smug brother catalogued his faults.

"You're becoming distracted, reckless even. I don't care what you study, just stay focused." Mycroft said firmly.

"I am focused."

"No. Miss Gordon is leading you a merry dance while you should be in the lab."

Sherlock's jaw clenched.

"No more of this ridiculous vigilante behavior. Leave it for the police." 

"God knows we can't have any family scandals to halt the progress of your bid to control the British government," Sherlock said in a mocking tone. 

"Don't be so dramatic," drawled Mycroft.

Sherlock huffed. "Will you do it or not?"

Mycroft ignored the question and walked around his desk with a file folder. "I have a problem I'd like you to look over. An encrypted message has been passed between two enemies of the realm and we're having difficulty deciphering it."

"I don't want to be one of your agents, Mycroft. I've told you," he said sullenly.

"And my agents don't want to serve as local law enforcement for out of control university students. If you want my help you'll have to return the favor."

Sherlock reluctantly took the folder from his brother's hand. "Done?" he scowled.

"Done," said a smug Mycroft.

…………………………….

In the end, Sophie wasn't needed to testify at all. Folding clothes in the laundry room of her dorm three days after making her statement, something on the wall-mounted television caught her attention. She looked up and her jaw dropped. There was a picture of Sherlock scowling at the camera while a fluffy-haired news anchor dramatically said: 

"A date rape drug ring has been dismantled at a local university. Graduate chemistry student and amateur sleuth, Sherlock Holmes infiltrated the star players of the university rugby team and found they'd been doing a little chemistry of their own. Mixing drugs that they slipped into unsuspecting women's drinks to incapacitate them. Amazingly when confronted with the accusations they all confessed. Needless to say, local rugby fans will be disappointed as the team rebuilds and speaking of sports…"

"Oh my god," Sophie said to the empty room. _How?_ she thought as she was flooded with relief. She wouldn't have to testify. She wouldn't have to worry about reprisals and they were going to be punished. If Sherlock's intellectual prowess impressed her before, it nearly took her breath away now. 

When Sophie next saw him she hesitated a moment then threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. "Thank you," she breathed in his ear. Sherlock's entire body went rigid in her embrace and his eyes fixed straight ahead. "You're welcome," he said stiffly. Disappointed, Sophie released him with a sigh and a pat on the arm.

Though she pressed, Sherlock refused to talk about how he'd managed to get confessions from the guilty students. Judging by his behavior whenever the subject was broached, it hadn't been pleasant. They were both pleased it was over without Sophie being dragged into it, but they hadn't anticipated Lenni telling her parents everything. Or her parents being so grateful that they sent a long and detailed letter to Sophie's parents praising them for having such a kind and brave daughter to put herself in danger the way she did. 

……………………...

Two days later one anxious English mum and one very angry, very Scottish father were waiting to ambush her at her studio.

"I wanted to help her, she's my friend," Sophie tried to explain.

"Then take her to the police, that's what normal people do," shouted her father.

"I did but she was too afraid to make a statement."

"Well, why is it up to you to fix it? Do you know what could have happened to you? Boys like that see an innocent young girl like you and—"

"Dad, I'm not a little girl anymore and I haven't been innocent for a while now."

"Sophie," her mother admonished as her father's face blanched.

It was very poor timing for Sherlock to come around the corner. He quickly found himself on the receiving end of a jabbing finger.

"You! You're the bastard who used Sophie as bait aren't you? I saw you on the news. Wanted to be famous, did you? Wanted to be a hero or something?"

Cool and detached, Sherlock looked the red-faced man up and down, ready to decimate him with a painfully revealing deduction. But what he saw was a man who loved his daughter and was terrified that she might get hurt. He pressed his lips firmly closed.

"You've got nothing to say then?" he demanded of Sherlock.

"Dad! Stop it!"

"You're not to see him again, or else," he bellowed at her.

"Or else, what? I'm 20 and have been paying my own way for three years now. You have no hold over me."

"It didn't have to be that way—"

"For the last time, I don't want to be a dentist or a barrister or whatever else you want me to be."

"No, you'd rather be painting your little pictures in the gutter—"

Sophie's mother laid a hand on his arm. "Hendry, calm down. I'll not have you drive her further away."

The burly man's face fell and he took a deep breath. "Alright," he said, "I'm calm." He put his face close to Sherlock's and growled low, "You stay away from my daughter."

"OK," Sherlock said flatly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sophie frown.

Her father looked confused and deflated slightly. "You will? You'll stay away?"

"Yes. Just as soon as Sophie asks me to, I will walk out of her life, never to return, but it has to be her decision not yours."

Sophie made a small sigh of relief. She embraced her father before he could say more. "Daddy, you know I love you. Let me grow up, OK?"

He closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped in defeat.


	15. Chapter 15

Weeks went by and their lives drifted back to normal. Sophie asked Sherlock if she could draw some more body parts at the lab. She had an idea for a painting and needed to do some studies. And she wanted to impress him that she could handle it. _At least I hope I can handle it._  

Arriving at the lab, they found it was already occupied by a younger student, an underclassman known as Chet, working at an incredibly messy bench. As they entered he looked up from his work and his eyes went immediately to Sophie.

 _Oh, no,_ Sophie thought as she recognized him and braced herself for what was sure to come.

"Oi, don't I know you from somewhere?" he called loudly.

Sherlock, who assumed the student was addressing him, muttered, “From the papers."

"No," whispered Sophie with a grim smile. _Wait for it._

"Oh, yeah," Chet brightened. "You're the model. The one what poses nude on Sunday nights at the art school. Knew I'd seen you somewhere before—just didn't realize I'd seen so much of you," he leered.

"Nude?" Sherlock frowned at him but slid his eyes sideways to Sophie.

"Yes, it's for drawing practice for art students," she said lightly and waited for his reaction.

"Then why is he there?" he waved dismissively at Chet.

Sophie smirked. "Ask him." She raised her eyebrows at the slovenly student.

Chet immediately blushed pink from collar to crown. "Professor Duncan suggested it. Said it was a good way to practice anatomy."

Sophie snorted at this and turned to look up at Sherlock. "He sends the anatomy students with poor marks and makes them hand in labeled drawings of the human figure until they get better."

Sherlock scowled. "And does it amuse you to pose nude for failing anatomy students?"

"Does it...what? Oh, bother." She rolled her eyes. "Don't get high and mighty with me, Sherlock Holmes. You know I have to pay for my own tuition and modeling is an easy gig. Besides, I never took you for a prude. After all, it’s just transport, right?"

"Of course, but do try to be intelligent about it. You could probably make much more money stripping at a gentleman's club," he sneered. "Or perhaps you could convince my brother to hire you spy on me again."

Sophie recoiled as if he'd slapped her. _What the fuck?_ She had been prepared to let him get in a few of his typical barbs and to let them roll off like usual, but she hadn't expected this. He wasn’t just acting superior and arrogant, he was being mean. She wasn't one bit ashamed of posing for artists and there was nothing lascivious about it but he'd managed to make her feel dirty.

Crimson with humiliation, Sophie slammed her sketchbook shut. "Right, I think I'm finished here. Chet, see you Sunday, most likely. Sherlock I'll see you when I no longer feel like punching you in the throat." Tucking her sketchbook under her arm she strode out in a fury.

………………………………….

The rest of the week passed quietly. Sunday evening came and she was still mad at Sherlock but lonely, too. She hadn't realized how much more time they'd been spending together since the rugby party. The missing him was starting to win out over being angry with him, but he was going to have to apologize if he expected her to speak to him again. She knew well enough that he didn't like to apologize and wondered how long it might take. Maybe he was done with her anyway. She sighed and packed a small bag with her dressing gown and sandals and headed to the art school.

The usual students were setting up their easels as she entered the brightly lit class. She nodded politely to a few of the nearest and made herself busy preparing the dais and the draping for the cushions she would lie on. Chet came in and smirked knowingly at her. She ignored him and set up the tripod lights that would cast highlights and deep shadows over her form. "Lights out," she warned and switched off the overhead fluorescents. Stepping into the tiny closet that served as the dressing room, she quickly began to undress. Her hair had already been pinned up out of the way and she only needed to slip on her robe and sandals.

She thought back to the very first figure drawing class she'd attended as a student. She was mortified at the idea of someone standing naked in front a room full of people. But from the moment she started she fell in love with it and, surprisingly, it made her fall in love with her own figure. She'd always been curvy—not chubby exactly, just curvy. But in a world of overly thin models, curvy is practically considered obese. She was surprised to find it was the curvy or plump women that she loved drawing most. Tall thin figures could be difficult to portray; it was harder to get the proportions right. But drawing curves was as much fun as driving on them. She began to appreciate her own figure and drew herself nude over and over.

The day she saw the job posting for models she decided to go for it. The job didn't pay much, but it was easy. At first it felt strange to have so many people studying her, looking at her as an object whose lines and planes they sought to translate to paper. But through those translations she looked beautiful. Through the talents of the best artists she was transcendent.

The waiting students seemed ready when she returned to the darkened room. Avoiding their eyes she stepped onto the platform, dropped her robe and arranged herself on the cushions. Not wanting to see him leering at her, she purposely put her back to Chet’s side of the room. With a glance at the clock she called, "Forty five minutes" and exhaled into the pose, letting her whole body relax.

Her eyes drifted closed as she focused on the soft sounds of charcoal and pencils being pulled across paper all around the room. She had almost dozed off when a cough brought her around. She looked at the clock. "Time," she called and sat up slipping her robe on quickly. She stretched her stiff muscles as she stood up and headed for the toilet. Upon returning she did a quick tour of the room while the students were still milling about and chatting. She even stopped by Chet's easel. As usual, he had anatomy books lying about as reference and instead of her nude form on the sketchbook page, there was a crude skeleton lying in her same pose. He had made hasty notes around it tagging the various bones as he drew.

"Getting better, Chet."

"Yeah? Well, what do you make of this one?" He asked jerking his thumb at the easel next to him. There was no owner in sight. Curious, she took a peek. It was a simple contour drawing of her back. It was amateurish but well proportioned with careful details. "It's not an anatomy student's is it?" she asked.

"Yes," said a deep voice behind her. "But not a failing anatomy student's."

 _Oh, no. Not him. He wouldn't!_ She felt the heat rise in her face. Turning toward the voice she looked up into the cold blue eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"Bloody hell," she gritted through clenched teeth. "What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

"Drawing, obviously." His voice was light but his eyes bored into hers.

"Why? You passed anatomy ages ago."

"I'm indulging my artistic side. Didn't know I had one? Well, we all keep secrets don't we?" He narrowed his eyes at her. Chet watched them both like a tennis match.

Sophie shook her head. Was he seriously upset that he didn't know about her modeling? "I don't know why you even care, but I don't want you here."

"Well, that's unfortunate. I paid the fee and I get to ogle like everyone else."

Rage like she'd never felt before came bubbling to the surface. "They're not ogling. They're drawing, you arse!" she hissed. She heard a few nervous titters from the students nearby.

"Barely. Some of them would make better mechanics than artists," he said disdainfully.

"Oh really? Your drawing is mediocre at best."

Indignant, his mouth dropped open. "It's better than Chuck's—"

"That's Chet," interrupted the offended party.

"—whatever. It's better than his and he gets to stay." His face was the perfect imitation of a pouting child.

"The only reason he's here is an effort to improve his skills and therefore his grade. The rest of them are here for artistic reasons. That means you're the only one here who just wants to ogle a naked woman. If you're looking for that kind of entertainment maybe you'd be better off at a gentleman's club," she spat.

He winced but raised his chin haughtily.

Before he could retort, she continued, "It's all about you isn't it? It's always all about you!" Her voice was rising and the students returning from their cigarette breaks stared in their direction. "I think when you can't see people you think they no longer exist. We couldn't possibly have lives and responsibilities outside orbiting your greatness and waiting to do your bidding."

A hurt look flashed in his eyes and was instantly gone. "That's not...I don't..."

She stopped him with a raised hand. "Whatever. They're waiting for me to begin again. Do what you want." She threw up her hands and walked away.

Trembling with anger, she muttered an apology to the shocked students and climbed on the dais. It was time for Sherlock's part of the room to draw her front side. Her angry eyes looked into his as she dropped her robe. She lay on the pillows and threw one arm across her eyes and shakily called the pose time. From under the curve of her arm she could still see his shoes. He was standing where she'd left him—either in shock or stubborn refusal to give in. The room was unusually quiet as she sighed and closed her eyes. Two hot tears trailed down her cheeks, but she couldn't move to wipe them away. She counted the time in her head and when she opened her eyes again, he was gone.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock sat in the dark willing himself to forget the disasterous evening, but he couldn't stop picturing the place, couldn't stop picturing her. The room had been cold and crowded with a scruffy-looking group of people. He calmed his nerves by deducing them: that one is a seventh year, keeps changing his major; that one is pregnant and doesn't know who the father is. When Sophie finally entered, she kept her eyes downcast for the most part and didn't see him. This was disappointing as well as a relief.

When her dressing gown slid from her shoulders he saw her small pink nipples sharpen to points. A slight blush crept into her cheeks as she lay down on the dais like a cat basking in the sun. Chet leaned over to him and said, "Carpet matches the drapes, eh? But I guess you knew that." Sherlock silenced him with a glare that would freeze hell.

How could Sophie think there was nothing erotic about what she was doing? The spot lights softly bathed her skin with a warm glow as she lay there like a harem girl—unashamed—for all to see. No one else seemed affected by it, unless you counted Chet's leering and even he eventually became engrossed in his drawing. Sherlock found himself in the unusual position of being the one person in the room emotionally affected by something instead of the only person who wasn't. _Get yourself together. It's just transport._ He picked up his pencil and began to draw. The difficulty of trying to draw her helped immensely to distract him and he began to feel a bit proud of his little sketch.

Then came the interval and the altercation. He'd never seen her so angry. Why did he say those things? Why was he constantly creating messes to be cleaned up? Why was he missing the social filter other people had to keep themselves out of trouble? He was even worse when she was near; it was like the connections in his brain jammed up.

Only Sherlock's stubbornness had kept him from leaving after the interval, but her tears finally broke him. He took his drawing and walked out.

………………………..

Sophie toweled her wet hair on the way back to her room from the showers. Distressed over the events of the evening, she was taking comfort in her favorite baggy sweatshirt and fleece pajama pants. When she opened the door to her room Sherlock was sitting in the chair by the window. His shoulders were slumped and his head was down. The desk lamp was the only light in the room and it painted one side of his shadowed face with a ghoulish glow.

"Sherlock," she gasped. "How did you—? Oh never mind."

Biting back her anger she calmly put her shower caddy away and hung up her towel. He said nothing. She combed out her wet hair and braided into one thick plait down her back. Still he said nothing. Squaring her shoulders she faced him, arms crossed. "Well?"

"Why not me?" he said, barely above a whisper.

This was not what she had expected to hear. "What?"

"Why is it OK for all those other people—those strangers—to see you naked but not me?" He looked up at her with reproach in his eyes.

Her arms fell limply to her sides as reality struck. _He's jealous._ All this was because he was jealous. But what did that mean? He'd never shown any interest in her that way. "Why should you want to see me naked? It's not exactly a typical activity between friends." She was still angry with him and couldn't help the sarcastic edge in her voice. He looked away.

"If you're not going to tell me what's really going on with you just go, ok? I'm tired."

"Sophie..."

"No. I like modeling and I need the money and you don't get to make me feel bad about that. You don't get to act like some jealous boyfriend—"

"Boyfriend?" He sneered.

"Oh, don't worry. I know you're not my boyfriend. As a matter of fact, from this point on, you're not even my friend so just go." Tears stung her eyes. She just wanted him to go so she could cry in peace.

"Sophie, wait. _Please._ You are my only friend," he gritted out. "And I'm sorry I intruded and made you upset in any way. What can I do? What do you want me to do?" Sherlock Holmes was begging.

She shook her head, blinking away the tears. "Nothing. Just go. I have an assignment to do."

"May I help?"

She laughed bitterly. She thought of way that was sure to get him to leave. "Yes, actually, you can. Strip."

"What?" he bolted out of the chair like it burned him.

"You heard me. If you're going to keep me awake with your groveling then I can at least get some work done. I have an assignment and I need a model. A nude model. You've modeled before, it's the same only without clothes. Get a little taste of what's its like." _Payback is a bitch._

He looked at her in disbelief. "I do not grovel."

"Whatever. I know you can deduce that I'm not joking. Strip or go." She turned to ready her easel and supplies. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him standing there looking at her. Her stomach flipped when he began to unbutton his shirt. _He's really going to do it. Oh, Sophie what have you gotten yourself into?_

Still not looking at him she casually walked to the door and locked it while he undressed. The last thing she needed was someone bursting in. She pulled out the small spot light she used for still life drawings and set it up on the edge of her desk, took a deep breath and turned to look at him. He was pale and smooth like marble, tall and slim but muscular. He would be a challenge to draw, but of course, nothing was easy with Sherlock.

The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed startled her for some reason—maybe she hadn't believed he was human after all. The fine, sparse hair on his chest pointed downward to a thicker, darker mass below. She was surprised to see he was cut. She felt herself blushing and hid behind her easel.

When she looked around again, he'd folded his clothes neatly on the chair and was looking a little lost. She felt a pang of empathy but was resolved not to make this easy on him. "Put your things on the desk and sit in the chair," she ordered but her hand trembled as she picked up the charcoal.

"I'm a good model because I don't move. Let's see how well you keep still when you're not in your mind palace—and don't you dare escape into your mind palace—you stay right here. Take a deep breath and when you exhale relax into position. If you're tense you'll be sore when it's over."

He did as he was told and remained still. She drew with furious strokes. She worked in silence for some time, giving the tension in the room a chance to dissipate.

Sherlock was the first to speak. "Was my drawing really so bad?" He asked quietly.

She jumped, dropping the charcoal stick. "I've seen worse." She stooped to retrieve the stick then looked at him thoughtfully. "It lacked emotion, passion. It was like a technical drawing. Were you really trying or was that a prop?"

"I was...trying to capture the moment. It was harder than I thought it would be."

"Well, I'm no genius like you but I'm glad you know what I do takes some skill. This drawing," she jabbed the easel with one finger, "will have lots of passion. Too bad it's the angry kind."

He sighed. "How can I fix this? I just want things to go back to the way they were." It was easier to talk to her while she was distracted with drawing and mostly hidden behind her easel.

"No, I don't think you do, Sherlock. This whole....outburst has been for some reason. You're not acting like your normal, detached self. Talk to me. If there are misunderstandings here they are entirely your doing because you won't tell me what you're feeling." She peered around the easel at him.

He grimaced as though he were in pain, but said nothing.

"Fine. Let's start with facts and then we'll come round to the feelings. You came tonight because you wanted to see me naked. Is that true?"

"Yes," he choked.

"How long have you been wanting to see me naked?"

"Since always."

She dropped the charcoal again. "Uh, you...you've been thinking about it for a while?" She could feel her face flushing.

"Yes." He was the one blushing now.

"And that's why you were jealous that I was posing nude?"

"Jealous?" He looked truly perplexed.

Sophie rolled her eyes. "Yes, jealousy. It's one of those human emotions you try to deny you have."

"Maybe," he admitted.

"So you like me?"

He blinked. "You're tolerable."

She snorted. "Liar." She was beginning to enjoy this. "You like me and wanted to see me naked and got jealous that others could and you couldn't." She stepped around the easel and stood in front of him. It was nice to be able to look down at him for a change. "Is your curiosity satisfied now? Or is there something else you want?" She moved closer until her knees nearly touched his. She knew that he was uncomfortable and pushing him like this was cruel, but he deserved it.

He gulped. "Nothing," he said hoarsely, but his eyes glittered hungrily and every inch of his body strummed with tension. Sherlock seemed so unusually out of his depth it triggered a strange reckless feeling in her. She'd never once seduced anyone or had ever found herself in the dominant position in a sexual situation, but she was obviously in control here. She found it exhilarating and terrifying. Biting her lip, she hesitated a moment then pulled her sweatshirt over her head and tossed it behind her.

His eyes widened then he lowered them. "Look at me. We're not in class now, Sherlock. This isn't about art, this is about sex." She leaned over to pull off her pajama pants, her face stopping inches from his. "Can you feel the difference?"

"No," he whispered. "This is exactly how I felt earlier."

His words sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. She glanced down to see his cock pointing painfully toward her. She smirked and tugged her sweatpants the rest of the way down and let them pool at her feet before kicking them away. She stood before him, hands on her hips, clad only in her pink knickers.

"And what was it you felt?" she demanded.

His breathing was harsher. "Tha...that I wanted you," he said in an anguished rush, eyes averted to a corner of the room. He crossed his arms over his erection.

She sighed. She'd wanted to hear him say that for so long. Why did he have to look like he was in pain when he finally did it? "Sherlock, the sad thing is that you could have had me much sooner. All you had to do was ask—not surprise me like you did tonight." His eyes flew to hers in disbelief. "I would have rather not had an audience for something that should have been intimate. I've been attracted to you for a while, since we first met, really. But I tried not to think about it because...I didn't think you felt that way about me...or anyone. I was amazed just to be considered your friend. You certainly never flirt. You don't do touching..." His eyes flickered away again and she cocked her head, studying him. "Or am I wrong about that? Do you want to touch me? If so, you have my permission."


	17. Chapter 17

His eyes were so intense as he looked up at her, she fought the urge to look away. "I do want to touch you, Sophie—so much that it's overwhelming, almost painful. It's sensory overload. It's...I feel out of control. I don't like being out of control." His hands clenched into fists on his knees.

 _No wonder he's never been with anyone._ "Is that so bad?" she asked softly. "Being out of control? What's the worst that could happen?"

He looked at a loss for the first time since she'd known him.

"I think you're just afraid of feeling something. Of letting your brilliant intellect take a backseat to your emotions." She looked away for a moment. "Emotions are subjective aren't they? They can't be neatly categorized on a periodic chart. You can't use them then put them away in a room in your mind palace when you're done. You want everything to exist within a set of rules but emotions never will. That's why you can experiment on dead bodies but you can't bring yourself to touch a living one. Maybe you should go back to your cadavers," she said sadly and stepped away from him.

"No! Sophie, please. They...they don't smell like you—“

"Well, I should hope not!" she exclaimed, horrified.

He shook his head and rushed on, "—they don't look at me with your eyes. They’re not warm and alive and they don't make me feel like I'd like to unzip my skin and crawl out of it. I can't process it all. It makes me...itchy. It's too much at once and I don't know what to do. I...I don't know how to put the pieces together to solve the problem." He looked at his hands in misery.

"There is no problem to solve. You don't have to be a genius to connect with someone. We share a connection as friends so why is the physical part so hard? You carried me up to your bed when I was drugged. You had to touch me then, right?"

Suddenly he sat up straight and looked ready to run. "Yes, but you needed help. And you were unconscious," he said nervously. 

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Did you touch me while I was sleeping?"

Sherlock blushed to his belly button and looked as if he'd like the floor to open up and swallow him.

"What did you do?"

Like a robot, he reported: "I took a blood sample. I took off your shoes and jewelry. I touched your hair and your ear."

"That's it?" She laughed.

"I thought about it," he whispered. "I thought about what I could do. I'm as bad as they are."

"No, you're not. Thinking it doesn't make you bad, acting on it does." He looked up at her with relief. "Look, I have an idea. It's weird. But you're kinda weird and this is an unusual situation." She wiped the charcoal dust from her fingers with a rag. "I refuse to try to smell like a corpse," she laughed, "but otherwise I can act like one."

Sherlock was baffled. "What?"

She padded over to her narrow bed and reclined facing the ceiling, arms at her sides, eyes closed. "I will not speak or open my eyes until you're ready. Do what you like. Examine me. Experiment. Observe. Whatever."

She lay there, eyes squeezed shut for what felt like an eternity. Fear, doubt and the desire to giggle all madly warred for dominance in her brain. Would he leave or would he touch her? Every pore of her skin tingled to know the answer. The room was still and silent as she waited. Outside she could hear the distant laughing of students passing in the quad.

She never heard Sherlock leave the chair or cross the room but she could suddenly feel the heat from his body near her. Her heart pounded at the thought that he was standing over her and looking at her. The mattress dipped by her knee as he sat on the edge of the bed. All her senses strained toward him in the darkness behind her eyelids. She could smell him now, a mix of cigarette smoke and soap. Her breath hitched when he gently touched her wrist and held it. _He's taking my pulse,_ she thought. _He knows my heart is racing._ She could practically feel him smirking at her.

His hand left her wrist and she mourned it's absence. Next he touched her foot, tracing her ankle bone with a fingertip and causing goosebumps to prickle her skin. He traveled up her shin pausing at a scar just below her knee. _He's deducing my very skin_. She wondered if he could tell that she'd gotten the wound from falling off her bicycle when she was ten. When he kissed it tenderly it was all she could do not to grab him and climb on top of him.

His fingertips continued up her thighs and skimmed over her hips and stopped at the waistband of her knickers. They curled under the elastic and hesitated. Slowly, achingly slowly, he began to pull them down. Sophie inhaled sharply as he exposed her. He gently tugged them all the way off then his fingers returned to their exploration along her hips and up her stomach. Ticklish, she twitched involuntarily under his touch. She had to fight hard to stay still, she wanted to open her eyes, to fidget, to squeeze her thighs together to ease the increasing pulsing of her clit. But though her breathing became shallow and ragged, she waited for him to be ready and didn't move. His hand finally slid up to cup her breast. He squeezed gently, experimentally, and she heard him moan appreciatively.

Stretching out on the bed next to her, his warm body molded to hers. She felt his breath in her hair before he traced it with his finger then skimmed the line of her jaw.

"I thought I had to become a different person to have this…intimacy with someone, but I didn’t know how to do that." His voice was a low rumble that made her shiver. "You’re the first person who has ever accepted me as who I am. You push me and challenge me but you never try to change me. I so often do and say the wrong things that I keep waiting for you to be repulsed and turn away from me. Part of me gets angry that you don't see that I'm not deserving of your attention and then I say even worse things, horrible rude things. I don't know why, but you put up with it all. I would like to know how to be worthy of you, Sophie. If that's even possible. I just...I don't know what to do."

She frowned.

"Open your eyes , Sophie. Please." She looked into his eyes. They were glittering pools of desperation and fear.

He looked down at her body. "I don't know what to do," he whispered again. This time it meant something more.

She smiled and cupped his cheek. "There is nothing repulsive about you, Sherlock Holmes." She pulled him to her and kissed him softly, chastely, then looked to see if he believed her. "Though your manners are sometimes atrocious." She ran her tongue across his lips and kissed him harder and checked again. "And you can leave a girl in the most torturous doubt." This time his lips parted as she flicked her tongue against them and she kissed him until his pupils were blown and his breathing was ragged. "You are a remarkable person and I'm glad I met you."

Smiling suggestively, she shocked them both by sliding her hand down his smooth stomach and wrapping it around his erection. "There may not be a protocol tucked away in your mind palace for this, but I think your body knows what to do. Why don't you let it lead for a change?"

Her warm fingers closed on his cock as she ran her thumb over its leaking head. He gasped and involuntarily thrust into her hand. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

He closed his eyes. He wanted more than he could express. He felt Sophie take his hand and move it to her thigh, then down through her curls. She parted her legs and pushed his hand between her folds. He groaned at the sensation.

"Remember this is an experiment, don't be shy. Go on, observe." He could hear the smile in her voice.

"Warm. Wet. Soft," he breathed. She guided his long index finger into her depths and they gasped in unison. "Hot."

"Open your eyes. Observe."

His dazed eyes focused on her face. "You...you're flushed. Your pupils are dilated. You're aroused...you like this."

"I certainly do."

Feeling bolder, Sherlock adjusted his position and leaned down and kissed her. His hands kneaded her breasts as he tried to memorize her sounds of approval. Moving lower, he hesitantly flicked his tongue around her nipple then pressed his whole, hot mouth over it. He groaned against her flesh and slipped one hand back between her legs, one knee started making it's way between hers.

"Ok, stop a minute," she panted. "I have condoms if you want, but I'm clean and I'm on birth control. What about you?"

He looked confused, his eyes glazed with desire. "I'm not on birth control."

She giggled. "No, are you clean?"

His eyes sharpened. "If you mean disease free, yes—I use my own blood to run tests sometimes—"

She wrinkled her nose. "Ugh. That's all I need to know about that."

His chuckle rumbled deep in his chest and vibrated out through her.

She smiled at him and took a deep breath. "Ok, then." She kissed him hard and pulled him close. They kissed until they were breathless and Sherlock found himself cradled between her thighs. Sophie bucked against him in invitation.

He lifted himself and hovered over her with a questioning look in his eyes. She smiled in answer and reached down to position him at her entrance. The sensation of her warm wetness against the head of his cock made him groan in anticipation.

"Now?" he panted.

"Ready when you are."

Sherlock thrust his hips forward slightly and slid gently into her heat. "Oh, god." He looked at her. "Can I...may I go deeper?"

"Please do."

He pressed forward slowly and she lifted her hips to meet him until he was fully seated inside her. They looked at each other in happy wonder. 

"How does that feel?" she asked, running her fingers through his hair.

He gulped and found his vocabulary skills were nearly nonexistent. "Good." He began to move in and out, testing angles, finding a rhythm. Sweat beaded his forehead and he grunted in a primal way that was very unSherlock.

"Are you feeling out of control yet?" she teased between gasps.

"Yes." He thrust into her again and groaned. "I'm beginning to see the merits of it..." His pace increased and his eyes closed in concentration. Sophie knew he was close. She pulled her fingers from his black curls and pinched his nipples. He looked at her in shock then his eyes focused inward and saw nothing as his orgasm bloomed and rose through him.

"Sophie," he cried and clutched at her, his face contorted in a kind of glorious pain. Out of breath, he collapsed on top of her and she kissed his sweaty cheeks.

……………………………………..

As they lay tangled on the small bed, Sophie found that all her wanton powers of seduction from earlier had been replaced by a bashful concern for how Sherlock would handle "post sex." He completely surprised her by climbing back into bed with her after they'd cleaned up. He looked relaxed in a way Sophie had never seen before—the closed expression he often wore was completely gone and he seemed incapable of not touching her body. Gazing down at her with a dreamy look of fascination, he made a lazy attempt to tuck some stray hairs behind her ear.

"Now, aren't you glad that's over?" Sophie teased. "You can resume control of your senses." 

"No. I'd like never to stop."

"You won't say that once the chafing begins," she said in mock seriousness while he rumbled out a deep chuckle.

"Wait, did you...finish?" he asked suddenly.

Sophie's face flushed. "No, but that's OK."

"I may be inexperienced, but I'm pretty sure it's not OK."

"No, really, don't worry about it. It was your first time, anyway."

"Tell me what to do."

"Sherlock…," she pleaded.

"Sophie," he answered in a warning tone.

She sighed. "It's...it's not you. I've never been able to have an orgasm from sex."

"Well, what did your other partners do...or not do?"

She groaned. "All two of them? I'm not much more experienced than you, Sherlock. And my exes were no great lovers."

He arched an eyebrow at her. "Have you ever...?"

"Of course…," she blurted then hesitated. Putting her hands over her face she said in a rush, "I can give myself an orgasm, ok? And that's all I'm going to say about that for the moment."

Sherlock frowned. "You can't pose nude and be too shy to talk about sex, surely."

She rolled her eyes and sighed. "How many times do I have to explain about that? You saw what it was like—it has nothing to with sex."

"Um, I thought we just disproved that," he muttered, dubiously. "What about the brazen way you just seduced me? You weren't shy then."

Now she blushed scarlet and punched his shoulder lightly. "Yeah, well, nothing was ever going to happen if I didn't step up, correct? I got tired of waiting and wondering." She giggled and shook her head, "Honestly, I don't know what came over me."

Sherlock said nothing but smiled at the memory and traced strange symbols down her arm.

In a small, bemused voice she continued, "You know, the first time I modeled nude I'm sure I was bright red from head to toe and I know I was trembling. It's like volunteering to live out your worst nightmare—being naked in class. But then everyone got busy drawing and I started imagining all that creativity and talent pouring out all around me, focused on me, and I felt like...like a muse." She laughed. "It sounds stupid out loud."

He pondered her words. "You're my muse," he said softly.

Her heart thumped as she gave him a surprised smile. "Really? Do scientists have muses? "

"Yes. And this scientist wants the data on how to bring his muse to climax."

She made an exasperated sound. "God, you sound like a sex ed book. Not tonight, OK?"

He opened his mouth to protest but she hushed him with a kiss. Smiling mischievously, she said, "After I've traveled the world and had hundreds of lovers maybe I'll come back and share my sex knowledge with you. But now I must sleep, early class tomorrow," she yawned.

He frowned but nodded slightly and draped an arm over her torso. She tucked her head under his chin and was soon asleep. 

……………………….

Sherlock slipped from her warm embrace in the dark of early morning. He stood looking at her a moment like she was the most mysterious puzzle he'd ever encountered. Turning to retrieve his clothes he froze at the sight of the drawing she'd made of him the night before. It was crude, made up of thick black jagged lines full of emotion, capturing both his anxious, slumped posture and her anger. He dressed silently, not taking his eyes from it. Was that confused pile of angst really him? It already seemed like a million years ago.

When he left her room it was with an urgency of purpose. He had things to do that couldn't be accomplished lounging in bed.

……………………

Sophie's alarm clock screamed and in the split second between waking and opening her eyes she knew he was gone. She wasn't surprised or even hurt. It was rather normal behavior—for Sherlock anyway.

What she hadn't expected was not to see or hear from him again for three weeks.


	18. Chapter 18

Sophie was collecting her things for the summer interval. She wasn't looking forward to going home for the break but she didn't want to stay on campus and she had no money to go anywhere else.

There was a dull ache in her belly—she still hadn't heard from Sherlock. After nine days worrying and wondering where he was— checking the lab, knocking on the door of his flat and waiting at her favorite cafe until they shut down for the night—she'd given in and sent a letter to Mycroft. "You don't have to tell me where he is, just please tell me he's OK." She came back to her room two days later to find an envelope under her door. It had no postmark or return address and was on fine, white stationery paper. "He's fine. Busy, but fine." She sighed in relief then balled the paper up and threw it across the room. She pictured a smug Mycroft Holmes muttering, "I told you so," as he wrote his reply. She spent the remaining ten days in anguish, the question "why?" her constant companion.

Digging under her bed for a missing shoe, she heard footsteps in the hall. She looked up in time to see a breathless Sherlock Holmes wearing a huge backpack burst through the open door of her room.

"Oh good, you're already packing. Our train leaves in two hours." 

"Sherlock! I thought you were dead or something. Where the hell have you been?" Sophie's eyes were hard and accusing.

He cocked his head at her. "You're…angry." He shrugged off his backpack with a grunt and set it by the door.

"Yes, I'm bloody well angry."

"I...should not have left?"

"I wasn't totally shocked to wake up alone, but to not see or hear from you for three weeks..." Her voice cracked with emotion. "Was I just an easy fuck?"

Sherlock's face darkened instantly. "Is that what it felt like to you? I mean compared to the other men you've been with? _I_ don't have anything to compare it to."

That did it. Tears streamed down her face and she turned away from him, shoulders shaking.

 _Dammit Sherlock. Not good._ "Sophie, I...I apologize. I'm an unmitigated arse. I was doing research and had to travel. You know when I focus on a subject I can lose track of time, sleep, food, everything."

"Friends," she muttered.

"No. I never stopped thinking of you."

She looked up at him, teary eyes wide with something like relief. "I thought maybe you'd gotten bored with me."

He stepped close to her and grabbed her arms. "Don't let my brother into your head, Sophie. He doesn't know anything about us. I should have told you where I was going but I thought you might get embarrassed again..."

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean _again_?” She put a hand on his chest and pulled back from him. "What kind of research have you been doing?"

"Sex. Sex research." He looked quite pleased with himself.

Sophie's face blanched. "Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Um, no. It _is_ a valid area of research…”

“You mean like with books? You read some books? For _three_ weeks?"

He smirked and began pacing the room. "Well, I did read the oldest version of the Kama Sutra in India, but to be really proficient at something one must do more than read—"

She looked at him in horror. "You had sex with other women?"

"What? No. NO! I went to the Kinsey institute in America—what a fascinating place—then I went to Amsterdam to get practical knowledge. As a voyeur only! The Dutch are surprisingly flexible people—"

"Sherlock," she sighed and buried her face in her hands in exasperation. "This is so weird. Even for you. Most couples just get better with practice—something that can't happen when one person is flying around the world. Who _does_ that? Why must you always know more about everything than everyone else? Why must you always be the best at everything?" She threw her hands up.

He stopped pacing and blurted, "Because I don't want you to travel the world and have hundreds of different lovers. I want you to stay with me."

His words sobered her immediately. Sighing shakily, she said, "Sherlock, there's more to a relationship than sex. I'm sure at least one book you read talked about trust."

He nodded warily.

"How can I trust you? You run off at the slightest whim—"

"You are not a whim."

"But that's how you made me feel. Like you forgot me as soon as morning came." She crossed her arms. "You hurt me and you scared me and we'd only just got past our last fight."

He resumed pacing the floor, running his fingers through his curls distractedly. "I...I'm not good at this. At people. I forget to do the small but important things. Sophie, I am sorry and I would like to make it up to you. _Please._ Come on holiday with me. If you want me to grovel I will."

"Holiday? My parents are expecting me," she sniffled.

"Your parents are on a cruise in Bermuda."

"How did you know that?"

His only reply was a look that said "Have you met me?"

"People who go on holiday together are usually in a relationship. Are we?"

"Do you want to be?" He looked nervous.

"I don't honestly know. You don't do anything like anyone else. Mostly I like that, but three weeks without a word right after having sex the first time is very 'not good.' Like, the worst kind of not good." She wiped her eyes. "Just out of curiosity, do you want to be in a relationship with me?"

"You know I hate the terms 'girlfriend' and 'boyfriend,' but yes, I would like to be in a relationship with you."

She studied the expression on his face: hope mingled with fear of rejection. How much future bizarre behavior from Sherlock was she going to have to look forward to? He would never be a normal boyfriend but she supposed that was one of the things she found attractive about him. If she gave him another chance and he screwed up again, her broken heart would be her own fault. She chewed her lip as she pondered what to do.

"Where are we going?" she asked at last.

He heaved a sigh of relief. "My family's cottage in the country."

"We'll be the only ones there?"

"Yes." A wolfish look flashed in his eyes and was gone.

"You're not going to abandon me in the country when you have an overwhelming need to research cows or something?"

He laughed, his deep voice rolling through her. "No, I'll save the bovine research for when we return."

"I want my own room."

His face fell and he visibly deflated.

"You're going to have to work for it this time, Sherlock," she said quietly. "You have a lot to make up for."

"Yes." He nodded soberly. "And I will."

"Ok."

She hurried to finish packing as he watched her in silence, a smile flickering across his lips now and then.

……………………..

The train ride was mostly quiet, though Sherlock had chosen the strangest route with an abnormal amount of transfers. He was jumpy in the stations and constantly looking over his shoulder. When questioned about it he mumbled something that sounded like "brotherly love." On their last leg of the journey Sherlock, having forgone adequate sleep for weeks, finally succumbed while the train rocked them toward their destination. Sophie took turns reading, looking at the passing scenery and pondering him. He looked much as he did when she first found him lying on the grass. Serene. Beautiful. Other.

Though her wariness remained, her anger drained away as the miles rolled past. Now she had an overwhelming urge to touch him, to commit his scent and taste to memory. 

He smiled and without opening his eyes, said, "You're watching me."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are." He smirked and snuggled further down into his seat.


	19. Chapter 19

When they arrived at the little train station outside the village, Sherlock looked around and squinted in the bright afternoon sun. _No cabs._ "Um, I'm afraid I didn't arrange for a car. We may have to hitchhike."

"Let's walk," Sophie offered. "My legs are cramped from sitting on the train."

The scenery was beautiful: rolling green hills, tall hedgerows stretching into the distance under a blue sky dotted with thick while clouds. But it was a long, hot, dusty walk and their backpacks became heavier with every step they took. They were more than grateful when a truck slowed next to them and it turned out to be the estate caretaker, Mr. Greenleaf. He kindly drove them the remaining distance.

Their lodging was a charming old gamekeeper's cottage on an estate so large they were well out of sight of the manor. The stone walls were hung with ivy that crept all the way up to the thatched roof and a small, rather wild garden wound around the house behind a low stone wall.

Inside, the low ceiling beams came within inches of Sherlock's head. The windows were crisscrossed with leading and the furniture was slightly shabby and comfortable looking. Outside the windows Sophie could see some white boxes sitting in the back garden.

"What are those?"

"Bee hives. If they haven't been emptied by the caretaker recently I'll collect some and we'll have fresh honey for our tea."

Sophie gaped at him in shock. "I never took you for a beekeeper."

"Why not? They're fascinating and honey is delicious. I'll go have a look while you get settled."

She rinsed and filled the kettle and started the old stove. As the water heated she watched Sherlock from the window while he worked on the hives. It was all so strangely domestic.

She found some dusty mugs and washed them and opened the cupboard to get the tea. It was completely empty. Frowning, she opened the remaining cupboards. There was not one crumb of food in the house.

Sherlock, wearing a crazy veiled hat, bounded into the kitchen triumphantly with a bowl full of golden honey and comb. "Told you! Fresh honey for our tea."

"Too bad there's no tea," Sophie said dryly. Just then the kettle began to whistle.

"What?" He checked the cupboards in disbelief. "There was always food when I came here with my family."

"Sherlock, could it be your parents called ahead and had groceries delivered?"

Chagrined, he nodded.

"Exactly how long have you been planning this trip?"

"About four hours before I came to your room."

Sophie sighed, "Well, I thought you brought me out here to seduce me, not starve me to death. Is there a phone?"

"No, my parents never wanted to be bothered while they were here." Sherlock looked worried then brightened. "I know, there are bicycles in the shed. I'll ride one into town and get provisions."

Skeptical, Sophie eyed him through the window as he wrenched open the door on an ancient, crooked shed. Even with a growling stomach, she couldn't help but laugh when the rusty bicycle he pulled out had two flat tires.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. It was the caretaker with a box of food. "T'aint much miss but the lad didn't tell me anyone was comin'. Be glad to give you a ride to the village tomorrow morning for more."

"Oh, Mr. Greenleaf," she sighed gratefully, "thanks so much. You're a lifesaver!"

His eyes twinkled in reply and he tipped his cap and was gone.

Inspecting the box she found a bottle of milk, tins of tea and sugar, a small bowl of brown eggs and a half a loaf of bread. There were also some apples and a hunk of cheese.

The sounds of cursing and a bicycle being flung across the garden floated in through the open window. Sophie smiled and began laying out tea.

Just as she finished, Sherlock stepped into the kitchen looking defeated and very dirty.

"Oh, honey, you're home," Sophie said sweetly. "Care for some tea?"

Sherlock blinked once, twice at the linen covered table with the cheery tea service and plates of sliced apples, bread and cheese. "H...how?"

She winked. "Tuck in."

"Mr. Greenleaf?"

"Yep."

His shoulders slumped. "My plans are off to a fine start," he said glumly. "I've already been one-upped by the 70 year old caretaker."

"Well, he also saved us from having to walk all the way here, so technically that's two for him." 

Sherlock scowled and she laughed. "It's fine. Wash up and eat. You'll feel better."

………………………………………...

That evening they sat on the stone veranda, cooling off in the gentle breeze and listening to the night sounds of birds and insects.

Sophie's feelings were still raw and she remained quiet and pensive. After a while Sherlock, in an unusual show of nervousness, felt the need to fill the silence by telling her all about the past owners of the estate and some of their shocking misdeeds.

While she found the information interesting, it had the soporific effect of a bedtime story. Sophie yawned and rose from her creaky wicker chair. "Well, I guess I'll turn in." Sherlock stood awkwardly, hopefully. "Goodnight," she said firmly.

"We could just sleep together…," he offered.

"I don't think so, besides you never sleep."

"I slept on the train," he protested.

"Which means you probably won't sleep tonight."

"Fine," he answered, disappointed. "Goodnight."

…………………………………………..

Alone in the dark, Sophie finally had time to process that morning's events. She lay staring at the ceiling and thinking for the millionth time what an impossible person Sherlock was. On the one hand he'd run off without a word after their night together. That was bad. But he'd spent three weeks trying to learn everything he could about sex for her. That was...good? Ok, it was weird and way over the top, but that was Sherlock.

She found herself feeling a little disappointed. It had been nice to know something he didn't, to teach him something for a change. She supposed that now, what with all the "sex research," he'd be doing the teaching. Disappointment notwithstanding, she was more than a little intrigued about what he might have learned. But what if, after all that, he still couldn't bring her to climax? Would he be disappointed like her exes were? Not that they cared enough to try harder. To be fair, she'd never felt comfortable enough with them to express what she wanted.

She knew she'd give in to Sherlock eventually, but his smugness made teasing him so much fun; she enjoyed seeing him on the back foot for once. She giggled as she remembered how forlorn he'd looked after Mr. Greenleaf saved the day. Still smiling, she drifted off to sleep.

Sometime in the night she was awakened by a crash of thunder that shook the house. She put her pillow over her head but it did little to dampen the noise. Between booms she quickly darted from the bed into the sitting room, panicking when she found it dark and empty. Since Sherlock rarely slept, she assumed he'd be there. Heart pounding she crept up the stairs to his room.

A flash of lightning illuminated the room and Sherlock's sleeping form. Slipping into bed next to him she muttered, "I'm sure you planned this somehow." She buried her head under the covers and missed the slow smile that crept across his face just before he turned and curled himself around her.

……………………………………………..

Sophie woke to bright sunlight filling the quaint bedroom. She was groggy, Sherlock was absent. Down below the garden sparkled with the evening's rain and birds were quarreling in the rose bushes. In the kitchen she found Sherlock looking proud of a small breakfast he'd scraped together for her: the last of the bread, some honey, tea and wild strawberries he must have scavenged somewhere.

"If you'd slept any longer I was going to bring it up on a tray," he said by way of a good morning.

"Hmm, thanks but I'd rather you didn't. Crumbs in the bed," she grumped.

He paused to consider this and nodded, looking wary of her mood.

"Did you know it would storm last night?" she asked him between bites of honey covered bread.

"Yep," he popped smugly. His eyes were drawn to her tongue licking honey from her lips.

"And you didn't think you should mention that?"

He cocked his head at her. "Mention a little storm to a grown woman as if it were the apocalypse or something?" He grinned. "No, not really."

Sophie rolled her eyes and huffed at his mischevious smile. _So much for curbing his smugness._

"I trust you were able to sleep well with me by your side for protection. My bed is also more comfortable than yours, don't you agree? Why not just move upstairs with me?"

"No, thanks. I'm sure I'll be lulled to sleep by crickets tonight unless you can conjure up another storm." She wrinkled her nose at him and smiled blandly.

Sherlock frowned but let it go. "The caretaker will probably be by soon to take us into the village for supplies. We should have enough time to look around some if you'd like."

"Yes, I'd like that." This time her smile was warm and genuine. She licked the honey from her fingers and stood up. "I'll go change."

 


	20. Chapter 20

Mr. Greenleaf dropped Sherlock and Sophie off in the village with a promise to check in with them around noon before heading home again. The storm had brought hotter weather with it, the air was dense with humidity. The sun dress Sophie wore stuck to her sweaty skin in places but she was happy to be exploring the village with Sherlock. They purchased groceries at a lovely market and she took photos of the quaint old shops and cafes. If Sherlock was bored he hid it well for once. He was pleasant and patient but, though the effort he was making was not lost on her, she did not comment on it. Neither of them spoke much but it was a comfortable silence.

With their shopping done they gave their parcels to Mr. Greenleaf who couriered them back to the cottage while they had lunch at the tiny local pub.

"Are you…is this good?" Sherlock asked tentatively.

"I'm having a lovely time, if that's what you're asking," she replied with a smile. 

"Good. That's good." His eyes drifted away toward the window. "If you're finished we can go over to the church. You might like to see that as well." He seemed to be trying very hard to be a good tour guide.

"Sure. Let's go," she said.

The ancient stone church offered a cool respite from the sun. Sophie sat on a pew and admired the old stained glass windows while Sherlock explained the meanings of the symbols on each. Outside under the little porch he took a deep breath and pulled her close and kissed her. She let him, feeling him tremble slightly. The fact that he was still shy about making the first move made her smile against his lips. He turned away and cleared his throat.

Resuming his tour guide duties, he asked, "Would you care to see some standing stones?"

"You mean like Stonehenge?"

His face fell. "They're not as impressive as Stonehenge but they are very old—"

"I'd love to see them," she said. "Are there legends about them? Warrior tomb? Human sacrifice?" she said dramatically, teasing him. He rolled his eyes. "A meeting point for lovers?" she added, stretching the last word out provocatively. This time his eyes slid away from hers while the faintest of blushes stole across his cheeks. _Oh,_ she thought.

"Come on. They're a bit of a walk but they're on the way back to the cottage."

He led her down a gravel road banked on either side by high, impenetrable hedges. Occasionally a rabbit or bird darted out in front of them, otherwise they were completely alone. Suddenly Sherlock stopped and started poking about in the hedgerow. "Here, it's here."

"The stone?" she asked, perplexed.

"No, not the stone," he muttered with impatience. "The entrance through the hedge." He straightened up and pulled back the branches for her. "Ladies first," he drawled.

Sophie looked dubiously at the rather small hole he'd made in the hedge. "It's more of a crack than a door." As she pushed her way through, the branches scratched her arms and caught at her dress. She stumbled out of the opening onto an impossibly green field dotted with sheep. It curved up and away from the hedge until it met the bright blue sky.

Sherlock emerged behind her with a curse. Leaves were tangled in his black curls and his shirt was pulled askew.

"Bend down, you," she laughed moving close to pick the detritus from his hair. His eyes bored into hers as she worked and her breath caught in her throat. He leaned toward her as if he'd like to devour her.  _Not yet,_ she thought.

"The stones?" she asked, quirking her eyebrows at him.

"Top of the ridge there." 

"Oh, should be a good view then."

"I hope so," he answered, his voice so low and throaty it made her shiver.

………………………………...

The view was indeed spectacular. The fields curved down and away from them on all sides and the sky overhead was a cloudless, brilliant blue. Mossy stone walls crisscrossed the fields in an abstract pattern and the sound of sheep calling echoed now and again. There were three stones in all at the top of the very green hill—two large standing monoliths and a smaller, toppled stone a little distance from the others. Sophie was vaguely aware of Sherlock telling her, in that arrogant drawl of his, the history of the stones and their astrological significance, but she couldn't find it in her to pay attention.

"Take my picture," she said, shoving her camera in Sherlock's hands.

She stood with her back against the tallest stone. Sherlock looked through the viewfinder at her laughing grey eyes and golden braids and felt a lurch in his stomach followed by a feral impulse. He snapped the photo, put the camera on the grass and was in front of her in two strides. He took her face in his hands and kissed her urgently. _Not so shy now,_ she thought and kissed him back as hungrily, feeling warmth spread from her belly downward.

Sherlock tugged her toward the ground and she surrendered. He sat with his back to the monolith and pulled her onto his lap. She straddled him, never breaking their kiss, and carded her fingers through his curly hair. Knotting it in her fists, she pulled just a little. He moaned into her mouth and she smiled.

His fingers pinched her nipples through the light fabric of her dress and she gasped; his turn to smile. They kissed like fighting, it was hungry and rough and went on and on—neither wanted to be first to stop. Finally Sophie pulled away and unbuttoned his shirt while Sherlock watched her with darkened eyes. She ran her hands over his chest, relishing the feel of his lean muscles under his smooth skin.

He slipped a hand under her dress and the crotch of her knickers to find her velvety warmth already soaked. He plunged two long fingers in and she cried out, clutching his shoulders. _Definitely not shy now._  

"Show me," he whispered harshly.

"What?" she asked, confused, eyes glazed with lust.

"Show me." And he took her hand and placed it where his had been moments before.

"Sherlock..."

"Show me," he repeated and moved her hand up and down in her own wetness. "I want to see." She blushed crimson from her cheeks to her chest but began to move of her own accord. Sherlock gently pushed her down on her back in the grass. He lifted her skirt over her belly, pulled her knickers down past her knees and watched.

 _I can't believe I'm doing this with him watching. I'll never be able to come,_ she thought. But the kissing had already taken her more than halfway there and she found the hungry, fascinated look on Sherlock's face incredibly arousing. Somehow she knew he was analyzing everything she did—her technique, her speed, everything—to use on her later. It didn't take long before she felt the funny little fuzziness right behind her nose that signaled the beginning of her orgasm down below. Every cell of her body seemed to explode with pleasure. She stifled her cries with the back of her hand as she gasped through the final spasms.

Laughing nervously, she turned away and pulled her skirt back over her legs. "I've never done that before."

"Yes, you have." His voice was deep and gravelly.

"Not outdoors and with an audience."

"It was...beautiful."

Sophie smiled shyly and blushed. "I'm pretty sure I've never heard you utter the b-word before."

He only smiled. "What about you?" she said, reaching for him.

"No, not yet," he said mysteriously as his eyes scanned the horizon. "Later. We should start walking home."

…………………………………………..

The long walk back to the cottage left them hot and sticky. The cottage had just come in to view when Sherlock eyed Sophie sideways and said, "Follow me." He tugged her hand and pulled her into the forest edging the road.

The trees arched overhead with welcome shade and Sophie found they were on a narrow footpath barely visible through a carpet of ferns. They soon came to a clearing intersected by a wide stream tumbling cheerfully around mossy boulders. 

Sophie laughed. "It's lovely, Sherlock!"

He smiled, obviously pleased with himself for thinking of bringing her here. "There's a spring." He pointed at a small, clear pool nearby. "We used to cool off here when we were children."

"We? It's impossible to imagine Mycroft as a kid. I can only picture him sitting in that pool wearing a tweed suit and a look of utter distaste on his face."

Sherlock grinned. "Try not to picture him at all. Stay here and cool off, I'm going back to the cottage to get some fishing gear and go down the river a bit to see if anything's biting. If so, we'll have fish for supper." He looked proud just thinking about it and turned on his heel, hurrying toward the cottage.

 _What? Abandoned not for cow research but fish research,_ Sophie pouted but she was amused, too. _Sherlock must have read somewhere that showing he could provide for a woman would make her horny or something._ She giggled, realizing he still had a lot to learn if he would choose fishing over skinny dipping when trying to seduce a woman. _Silly little genius._

She looked down at the spring and smiled in anticipation. With a quick glance around she shed her clothes and slid shivering into the icy water. When she was thoroughly chilled and could take no more she climbed out and stood dripping while looking at the otherworldly beauty around her.

Wildflowers grew along the banks of the glittering stream and there were all shapes and sizes of mushrooms tucked here and there. Tiny white star-shaped flowers dotted the moss nearby and the strange piping of an unknown bird came lilting down at her. The whole glade was as enchanting as a fairytale. She tried to picture Sherlock reading fairytales as a child—no doubt he'd debunked them all. It made her a little sad to think the magic of this place might be lost on him.  

"Maybe I can help him see it," she smiled in anticipation.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock returned from his fishing expedition empty-handed and discouraged. He was surprised to find that the clearing where he'd left Sophie was deserted. He wondered if she had gone on to the cottage without him and started heading in that direction when he spied her sandals lying near the spring. As he got closer to them he spotted her dress draped across a branch a little distance away and suspicion bloomed in his mind. He approached the dress but was distracted by the sight of her white knickers hanging further away under the trees like a flag. _What is going on?_

Stepping into the forest he didn't have to go far before he came across her naked form stretched out on a thick carpet of moss under the trees. What he saw took his breath away. Sophie had made herself into a work of art. Wildflowers, branches and fern leaves were arranged in a wide circle around her. Her hair was braided with flowers and ferns into a crown across the top of her head and she had even woven tiny white flowers in her golden pubic hair. One arm was folded under her head, the other lay across her belly and she appeared to be fast asleep. Soft sunbeams shone down through the leaves and dappled the scene with shimmering pools of light. Sherlock would have thought she looked every bit a wood nymph if he were someone who even considered such things.  

What he thought instead was: _I can have this, too. I can be who I am and have my work and have this, too._  Since he was a young boy, people had told Sherlock he was "special." As he grew older he realized what they really meant was that he was "wrong". Wrong for an ordinary life, wrong for normal friendships, wrong for normal schooling, wrong for romantic relationships, wrong for marriage and family and a day job at an office. "You're too talented to waste your intelligence on the banal. You can achieve greatness if you focus. Relationships will dull your intellect and distract you. You can't have both," they said. He thought guiltily of the way his brilliant mother had given up her career for her children. Someone must have told her she couldn't have both, too.  _I don't have to give up anything. I can make this work—I will make it work_ _with her._

Shaking himself from his reverie he stood silently filling his eyes with Sophie. He noted that her pale skin was lightly dotted with freckles under the slight sunburn on her cheeks and arms. He admired the metallic gold glints in her hair and the eyelashes soft against her cheeks. His eyes lingered on her breasts as he remembered how soft they were.

He looked again at the flowers carefully placed around her and couldn't help but be impressed. With everything he'd learned, she was still much better at this seduction thing than he was. It was obvious she'd put herself on display to entice him, but he could tell by her deep breathing that she'd succumbed to sleep while he was off fishing. _So sorry to have kept you waiting._  Sherlock stepped into her fairy ring, slowly knelt down and stretched out beside her. The sun was sinking and casting a golden glow on everything. He gently touched her cheek and her eyes opened and looked into his.

"How dare you disturb my sleep, mortal," she teased drowsily.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I love you," he said on exhale as if he were afraid he'd lose his nerve.

Sophie's eyes widened. Her lips parted into one of her brilliant smiles before she pulled him into a kiss. Soon they were panting, Sherlock half on top of her as she pulled at his shirt and ran her hands up his back and under the waist of his trousers. His hands were in her hair, on her breasts, on her hips and moving lower. 

He pulled back and sat on his knees looking at her, smiling hungrily at her kiss-swollen lips and glazed eyes. She was flushed pink and her hair was tumbling from its braids in waves, sending flowers everywhere. He pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. His hands went to her knees and looking at her intently, he nudged them apart. Laughing, he delicately plucked each tiny flower from her curls. _She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me_ _…_ He tossed the last one away and Sophie gasped when he lowered his head and ran his tongue experimentally between her folds. She mewed and arched into him, encouraging him to go deeper. He pushed her knees further apart and flicked at the bud of her clit with the tip of his tongue while she moaned encouragement and pulled at his hair.

 _God, she tastes good—pay attention!_ he admonished himself. _She likes lighter pressure here, no teeth—at least not yet._

Sophie gasped, "Yes."

_Observe. Two fingers, curled upwards? Yes, there._

"Oh, god," she cried.

_Wet. Tangy. Almost._

"Sherlock! Oh, _yes!_ "

 _Mine._  

He kissed her belly and thighs as she shuddered her way down from her orgasm. He kissed her mouth and she could taste herself on his lips. It felt incredibly naughty and he smirked as if he could read her thoughts.

"You don't have to look quite so proud of yourself," she chided.

"Why not? I've accomplished something neither of your clearly substandard ex boyfriends was able to."

"Well they didn't study sex all over the world like some people."

"No, they didn't _observe_ ," he said smugly.

She kissed him to shut him up, but she was smiling. "I won't take no for an answer this time," she murmured and reached down to unfasten his trousers. Together they pulled them down as his cock sprang out hard and insistent against her legs.

She opened to him as their tongues danced and he slipped into her wet core with a groan. He pulled out and sank into her again.

"Sophie..." He thrust harder, reveling in the feel of her hot depths.

"You feel so good," she panted

"Not as good as you," he whispered in her ear, making her shiver all over. He pulled her leg over his shoulder and pressed deeper, nearly lost to the sensations flying from his lower regions to his brain.

"Ow, this is starting to hurt," Sophie frowned. Pushing him away gently, she sat up and pulled off a pebble that was embedded in her hip.

"Should we go back to the cottage?" he asked, disappointment in his eyes.

Sophie grinned mischievously. "No, silly. Let's try this." 

She turned around, got on on her hands and knees and glanced back over her shoulder with a wanton look of invitation. Of course Sherlock had read about this position, he refused to call it by its ridiculous name, and even seen it performed in the Red Light district of Amsterdam. Logically he could appreciate the practicality and merits of the pose but logic had nothing to do with how he felt at the sight of her swollen folds peeking out like some exotic fruit from below the cleft of her ass. Carnal desire as strong as pain flickered in his belly.

He fumbled a bit on entry, but she helped to guide him in. They cried out in unison as he filled her. He thrust a few times experimenting with how far he could pull out and how deep he could go in. Very deep was the answer. He grabbed her hips and had the sudden shameful feeling that he wanted to be rough with her—to pound into her until he came. His fingers sank into her flesh as he pulled her to him and leaned over to place kisses down her back. Strangled noises escaped his throat—he was definitely losing control.

She cried out and he realized he'd bitten her. _What the hell! No need to devolve into a complete animal, Sherlock._ "Sophie, I'm sorry—"

"Shut up," she panted and pushed her hips back into him. "Do it again."

Something akin to a growl came out of his throat as he thrust hard into her. He bit her shoulder and saw stars as his orgasm overtook him like a storm.


	22. Chapter 22

After washing off in the spring, they strolled back to the cottage hand in hand, sneaking shy glances at one another. Sherlock was failing at suppressing a huge grin.

"You only climaxed once? Well, we'll have to work on that—get you up to at least two. You're capable of that, you know? Then we'll see where we can go from there," he prattled on.

Sophie stared at him in embarrassed horror for a moment then shook her head laughing. "Can we just glory in our accomplishments for now? I feel like some bloody experiment of yours."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but stopped as the unmistakable sound of car tires crunching gravel came drifting through the trees. They turned to see a sleek silver sports car slowly threading its way down the long shaded drive.

Sherlock frowned, "Who could that be?" He pulled Sophie with him as he ducked behind a tree.

The car parked and Sophie could see a man get out of the passenger seat. Another man emerged from the driver's side.

"What the hell?" muttered Sherlock.

"Who is it?" Sophie asked, squinting in the glare of the sunset.

"My brother," he spat.

"Oh, no." _He's here to make me leave._ "Who is that man with him?"

"I don't know, probably one of his—"

Both were shocked into silence as Mystery man embraced Mycroft and kissed him. Sherlock and Sophie remained frozen one beat, two beats then Sherlock's face lifted into villainous glee. "I will _ruin_ him."

As he moved toward the cottage, Sophie grabbed him and pulled him back. "Sherlock, no! Think for a minute."

"What is there to think about? He's been trying to run my life for years—'Do this Sherlock. Don't get distracted Sherlock.' He tried to pay you to go away, which I'll never forgive him for, and here Mr. Perfect has the biggest secret of them all. He's going to pay."

Sophie looked alarmed, “Wait, you don’t actually care if Mycroft is gay, do you?”

“No, but some of the conservative overlords he works for do.”

“And you would ruin his career by outing him?” she asked in disbelief.

“Of course not, but it makes wonderful leverage," he said with a murderous gleam in his eye.

"Oh, boy," she said and rolled her eyes. "Please try to use your brain for good instead of evil. I don't have to be friends with your brother but it matters to me if he thinks I'm no good for you, that I'm distracting you. If he cares for someone he may have more empathy now about us. Let's use that to our advantage."

Sherlock looked doubtful.

"Look they're unpacking food. At least let them put that away before you send him off angry."

His brow furrowed. "We just bought food in the village."

"Yeah, but I have a feeling theirs is better—those bags are from Harrods."

Sherlock looked down at her. "You're diabolical, you know that?"

"And hungry," she shrugged, grinning. "Come on, he's gone in and he'll be realizing something's up any minute now."

Mycroft emerged from the cottage a few moments later with a look of panic in his eyes. His pale face turned positively gray when he saw Sherlock and Sophie leaning against his rental car wearing identical smirks.

The tall, dark and golden-eyed Mystery Man, exited the cottage behind him and looked quizzically at the couple. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft shot Sherlock a look of pure loathing before rearranging his face into a stiff smile. "Mark, this is my brother, Sherlock, and his...companion, Miss Gordon. It seems we may have had a miscommunication about who was using the cottage this weekend. Sherlock, I thought you were still studying in…Amsterdam, was it?" He lifted his eyebrows meaningfully. _I know what you’ve been up to._

Ignoring the implication, Sherlock extended his hand. "Hello, Mark. Wonderful to meet you at last." He was all charm and smiles but he cut his eyes wickedly at his brother. "So sorry about the mix up."

"I've heard much about you, happy to finally be able to put a face with the reputation," said Mark with an easy smile.

Sherlock scoffed at that and Sophie elbowed him aside. "Hi, Mark, please call me Sophie. Lovely to meet you." Mark smiled warmly and shook her hand.

"Sherlock, might I have a word?" Mycroft croaked hoarsely.

"Of course dear brother."

"C'mon Mark. Let's let the Holmes brothers talk while we get you settled in." Sophie took his arm and led him into the house.

Her stomach growled as she helped unpack the food they'd brought. Strawberries, fresh salad greens, crusty artisan bread, duck, caviar, chocolate, bottles of wine. It was obvious they had been planning on a romantic weekend alone.

"I'm sorry if we've ruined your plans," Sophie said shyly.

"I guess I should say the same," he said, watching the brothers through the kitchen window with a worried expression. Sophie followed his gaze. It was clear they were fighting.

"Never mind them. They have issues. There's plenty of room here for all. I'll move my stuff into Sherlock's room and you can have mine."

Mark arched his eyebrows at her, "You have separate bedrooms? I thought..."

Sophie blushed. "We have issues, too. But we're past them, at least for now. Sherlock can be…a difficult person."

He snorted. "You mean a git? So can his brother."

"We'll have to form a support group," she quipped and they chuckled in unison. "So how did you and Mycroft meet?"

"He's a regular at the restaurant I work in—I'm a sous-chef. Mycroft loves fine food, he's quite the gourmand."

Sophie snorted and shook her head.

"What?"

"Sherlock barely eats anything. How can two such similar people also be so different?"

"I don't know," he laughed. "Are they that different? They're both brilliant aren't they?"

Sophie nodded. "And arrogant."

"And stubborn," he added. "And intimidating."

"Yes, and annoying. And very, very persuasive when they want something, right?" She lifted her eyebrows at him.

“Very,” said Mark.

Just then Mycroft stormed through the front door and shut himself in Sophie's bedroom with a bang.

Sherlock strolled in moments later with an evil, satisfied grin on his face.

"Sherlock, behave. You look like the cat that ate the canary," she scolded.

"I did. And he was delicious."


	23. Chapter 23

Dinner did not go well.

"You neglected to have groceries delivered?” sneered Mycroft. “Tut tut, Sherlock. Let me guess, you were going to impress Miss Gordon—“

"It's Sophie," she interrupted weakly.

"—by catching a stag with your bare hands," he continued, unfazed.  "Show her what a man you are? And how did that work out, hmm?"

Sherlock's eyes were murderous. "This trip was planned on a whim. It's called being adventurous. Something you'd know nothing about."

"Sherlock," Sophie pleaded.

"Let's change the subject," said Mark, trying to help, though frankly he looked rather alarmed at what was taking place over his beautifully prepared meal.

Mycroft couldn't let it go. "There is adventurous and then there is foolhardy, brother. You've always favored the latter—"

"Really? So when are you bringing Mark round to meet Mummy? Will that be a well-planned adventure?"

Mycroft turned crimson and looked poised to hurl himself across the table at Sherlock. Instead, he closed his eyes and took a deep, ragged breath. Ignoring Sherlock entirely, he turned to Mark and said, "Thank you for the expertly prepared meal, Mark. I apologize for the poor dinner conversation. I'm afraid there has never been enough room in this cottage for the two of us."

Sherlock was about to retort when Sophie kicked him, hard, under the table.

"Mark, Sherlock and I will clean up. Thanks so much for such a delicious dinner." She gave Sherlock a look that said “Get your arse in the kitchen _now_.”

He scowled but obeyed as Mark and Mycroft repaired to the sitting room.

“Sherlock, this is completely childish behavior,” hissed Sophie.

“I’m not childish. He ruined everything by turning up so why shouldn’t I be angry?”

“That’s the same as saying, ‘he started it,’ which is childish.” She moved close and gave him a hard look. “And childish is _not_ a turn on.”

He blinked. _Oh._ For the remainder of the time they worked in the kitchen he was petulant but at least he was quiet. Sophie pointedly ignored his mood while she wondered how to undo the angst in the house.

…………………………………………………

“Miss Scarlett in the library with the rope,” guessed Mycroft.

Sophie meant well, she really couldn’t have known. Poking around in the sitting room cupboards she came across an old Cluedo game. It had seemed like something fun they could do together while getting drunk. "Why don't we all play this?" It seemed harmless enough at the time. _We'll break the tension with lot’s of wine and a silly kid’s game._ Trying to imagine Mycroft drunk, she giggled as she gathered up the wine bottles and glasses.

“Please, Mycroft, that’s what you’re going with? I can see why you need the help of so many agents if you can’t even guess the murderer in a child’s game,” Sherlock taunted him and held up the card with Miss Scarlett on it, not even bothering to hide it from Mark or Sophie.

Sophie and Mark rolled their eyes at one another across the Cluedo board. The Holmes brothers were ignoring them completely as they battled to see who would be first to get all three clues correct. Each continually insulted the other on how preposterous their guesses were.

“OK, Sherlock, your turn,” Sophie said.

"Professor Plum in the library with the rope."

She sighed, "Is that your final answer, Sherlock?"

"It is,” he said smugly.

She looked around but no one was objecting. Mycroft had an especially sour look on his face.

"Fine." She opened the envelope. "Professor Plum in the library with the rope."

"Aha," he shouted in triumph.

“Of course it’s easy when someone else has done most of the work,” Mycroft sneered.

"You're such a poor loser," Sherlock retorted.

"You're such a child," sniped Mycroft.

Mark looked as miserable as Sophie felt. She held up the tiny revolver and pretended to fire it at her head. Mark smiled grimly and mimed stabbing himself in the heart with the miniature dagger. She tilted her head toward the hall. He nodded slightly and they got up and left the room without the squabbling Holmes brothers noticing.

Pausing outside the sitting room, Sophie asked, "Can I just get my stuff out of your room tomorrow? It's so late and I'm knackered."

"Sure," he replied and looked back toward the living room. "How long until they even realize we've left?"

She rolled her eyes. "No idea, but I know one thing—they don't deserve us." She kissed him on the cheek. "Sleep well, Mark. Tomorrow we do battle with the Holmeses." She gave him a wink and climbed the stairs to Sherlock's room.

Slipping out of her dress she realized she had nothing to sleep in. She dug through Sherlock's clothes and found a t-shirt. Pulling it on she tried not to let the delicious smell of him weaken her resolve to have words with him about his behavior. Curling into bed, she was asleep almost instantly.

Sherlock had enough wisdom not to wake her when he came to bed. He lay awake all night feeling apprehensively that something was not good between he and Sophie. He wasn't sure what but he was sure who'd caused it.  _Bloody Mycroft._

In the morning, Sophie woke to a very aroused Sherlock spooning her and breathing hotly onto her neck. She was about to roll over and embrace him, but remembered she was angry. She elbowed him sharply in the ribs and jumped out of bed. “Bugger off, you.”

“Ow! Why?”

“You know why. Go down, find your brother and apologize. I can’t take another day of this arguing.”

“No,” he pouted. “I don’t see what any of it has to do with you.”

_“Sherlock.”_

“No!” He rolled over and pulled the covers over his head.

“Fine,” said Sophie through clenched teeth and stormed out wearing only Sherlock’s very fitted t-shirt and her knickers.

“Put some clothes on!” he shouted, throwing back the blankets.

“Transport!” she yelled back.

Sophie found Mark in the kitchen making coffee.

“Ready to declare war?” She held up her fist.

“Let’s do it.” He bumped her knuckles with his.

………………………………………………...

The Holmes brothers sat seething at the breakfast table, each looking in a different direction and decidedly not at one another.

Arms crossed, Sophie stood there in knickers and t-shirt that barely covered the essentials. “Listen up Holmses," she said sternly, "this is the way it can go today. Mark and I can go have a lovely day strolling about the village while you two stay here and commit fratricide or something...”

“Or,” Mark continued, “Mycroft and I can have a lovely day in the village while you and Sophie have some privacy here at the cottage. If that’s what you want, the bickering stops now.”

“Sherlock?” Sophie gave him a pointed look.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he spat.

“Mycroft?” Mark raised his eyebrows.

“Yes. Agreed,” sighed Mycroft.

“OK, then. _Say it_.” Sophie glared at Sherlock.

“I apologize,” muttered Sherlock with a pout.

“Now you, please, Mycroft,” said Mark.

Mycroft looked as though he were eating something very bitter. _His pride,_ thought Sophie. “Accepted…and I also apologize.”

“Sherlock? Accepted?”

“Yes,” he said, making a face.

“Good,” Sophie said with relief. “I hope you two have a wonderful time together in the village,” she smiled, suddenly cheery.

“Take him to the standing stones,” Sherlock said and leaned toward Mycroft, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh, for god’s sake I don’t need dating advice from _you._ ”

“Boys!” admonished Sophie.

Smirking, Sherlock shrugged and walked away.

……………………………………

As soon as they were gone Sherlock walked calmly over to Sophie, threw her over his shoulder and carried her, squealing, up the stairs.

Tossing her on the bed he said, "Knickers off," and removed them with a flourish. "My shirt however…do you know how ridiculously enticing you look in my shirt? It leaves nothing to the imagination, I can't believe you went downstairs like that."

She giggled. "They're gay they don't care."

"I'm fairly certain Mark is bisexual."

"Really?" Sophie said, eyes wide. She bit her lip and said, "Hmm."

With a growl Sherlock climbed over her. "Stop that."

"What?" she said, all innocence. 

"Thinking of someone else while in my bed, or at all for that matter."

"There's that jealous streak ag—"

Sherlock cut her off with a kiss and she soon found she couldn't do much thinking at all.

………………………………………………...

Sophie looked at the sun streaming across a naked Sherlock tangled in the white sheets, sweat drying on his brow.

“We really should leave tomorrow. Give them a turn here,” she said lazily.

“No, I don’t want ever to leave,” he whined as he rolled over and wrapped himself around her. Laying his head between her breasts he listened to the strong beat of her heart.

She sighed and ran her fingers through his lush curls. “My parents will be home from their cruise in a couple of days and I need to make an appearance. All this effort to help you and Mycroft get along reminds me I need to work on my relationship with my Dad. 

“Good luck with that.”

“Hey, that’s not nice. Our problems are pretty textbook compared to you and your brother. My goodness, grown men acting like five year olds.”

“That’s probably more typical than you think.”

“Probably,” she chuckled. “Anyway, don't you have some summer school labs to supervise?”

"Ugh, yes. The underclassmen these days are so unintelligent I'm beginning to think they'll admit anyone to university."

"Go easy on them. Not everyone is born with enormous brains." 

"Come here and I'll show you something enormous," he smirked and pulled her closer.

Sophie laughed in surprise at Sherlock making a sexual innuendo. "Think a lot of yourself do you? And you couldn't possibly, we just finished… _Oh!_ _Already?_ "

Sherlock smiled.

……………………………………………………….

That evening the “boys” were on their best behavior. Mycroft and Mark returned late in the day with a bit of sunburn and lots of private smiles for one another. Sophie surprised herself by thinking they made a cute couple. During dinner prep she served as assistant chef for Mark while the Holmes brothers played chess at the kitchen table where their interaction could be monitored.

That evening there was still a bit of a competitive edge to the conversation, but they steered away from any topics that were too personal or contentious. They talked of art, books, food and music. _Like real, sophisticated grownups,_ Sophie thought. She and Mycroft had a lively debate about the Tate Museum’s latest exhibition. To the amusement of all, Mark managed to elicit a surprised “yum” from Sherlock with his incredible dessert.

Delicately wiping said dessert from the corners of his mouth, Sherlock asked, “Could you give us a lift to the station tomorrow morning?”

“No,” said Mycroft.

Sophie and Mark held their breath, ready for a fight to begin. Mycroft pulled keys from his pocket and tossed them to Sherlock. “Take the car.”

Sophie had never seen Sherlock look so surprised. His mouth opened but nothing came out.

"Mark and I can get a lift to the station from the caretaker at the end of the week and take the train in."

Mark shot Mycroft a proud look that promised later rewards. Sherlock looked suspicious but still couldn't manage a reply.

“It’s a rental, I expect you to return it for me," intoned Mycroft in a bored way. "The paperwork is in the glovebox. Do be careful, won’t you?”

“Yes. Of course,” Sherlock finally said stiffly, still looking as though he thought he'd landed in a parallel universe.

………………………………………………………. 

Later that evening Sophie, arms piled with laundry and shoes, came face to face with Mycroft in the hallway. There was an awkward moment where neither said anything. Finally, Mycroft cleared his throat and said, "It seems I owe you an apology, Miss Gordon. It probably won't help for me to say I did what I thought was in Sherlock's best interests, but it's the truth. Now I see that he is both happy and content—something I worried wouldn't be possible. I think you are good for him and I hope he will prove to be worthy of you."

She blinked in astonishment. Giving him her most disarming smile she said, "Call me Sophie."


	24. Chapter 24

Sophie wasn’t sure why she was tiptoeing down the corridor since she was still a little ways from Sherlock’s lab. Having just returned to campus after spending time at home, she was trying to surprise him. Neither of them were much for talking on the phone and as such they'd barely spoken while she was away. She couldn't wait to see him. Grinning in anticipation, she approached his lab, but paused when she heard voices drifting through the open door.

She couldn't make out the other voice but thought she heard Sherlock say, “I know exactly what I’m giving up and exactly what I’m gaining.” 

Before she could process that, she nearly ran into a tall man in a white lab coat rounding the corner. He appeared to be a few years older than Sherlock and was handsome in a severe sort of way. He stopped and looked Sophie up and down with a faint, surprised smile on his face.

“Are you by chance Sophie?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Nice to meet you. Sherlock has told me so much about you.”

“He has?” She blushed trying to imagine Sherlock talking about her to other people. “I’m sorry...who are you?”

“Oh, excuse me, I’m Steven, one of the faculty researchers who work with Sherlock.”

“One of the few who lived to tell the tale?” she teased, eyes twinkling.

“Yes,” he laughed. “He can be a challenge but one that’s well worth the effort, don’t you think?” He winked conspiratorially. 

She smiled, “Yeah.”

………………………………………………….

Sherlock sat in the lab staring into a microscope and feeling conflicted.The incredible scientific puzzles that had tantalized him for so long didn't dazzle him like they used to and, for Sherlock Holmes, that was a very unsettling feeling. Was he sure he knew what he was giving up? He did his work and he did it well but the passion for it was diminished. _I'm thinking of her too much._ He’d passed a productive nine days while Sophie visited her parents—productive, but lonely. He was not pining, definitely not, but he found himself alarmed at how much he missed her. When and how did he get so attached to another person? The logical side of his brain said this separation was a good thing; that perhaps they needed to slow down a bit. He had work to do, after all, and she _was_ a distraction. Now that she was far away, and he wasn't drowning in the scent and taste of her, he could think clearly. Was he really OK with giving less attention to his experiments than he normally did? How could anything less than perfect be acceptable?  

He was pondering this soberly when suddenly Sophie flew into the lab. Eyes shining and grinning ear to ear, she threw her arms around him. “Did you miss me?”

“Have you been away?” he said coolly, “I hadn’t noticed.”

She arched an eyebrow and said, “Well, in that case…” She turned to go.

 _Let her go,_ a voice told him, but another, more compelling voice said, _Don't be a fool, Sherlock._  Grinning, he reached out a long arm and pulled her into a kiss.

"Oi, get a room!" shouted Chet from his cluttered bench. Sherlock gave him a look that sent him scrambling out of the lab.

"It’s mean, but I love the way you do that,” Sophie laughed and kissed him again. Pulling away, she said, “Oh, hey, I have exciting news! I've been offered a stipend to study in France for a month. I applied so long ago I almost forgot about it,” she rushed on then hesitated, “but, um, it’s soon."

“But you just got back.” Sherlock frowned. “And isn’t that rather late notice?”

“I know, I’m sorry. The acceptance letter went to my parents’ house while they were away on their cruise and it got buried in the rest of the post. My spot was almost given away, I had to call and beg them to keep me in the program.”

"Well, congratulations," he sniffed and turned back to his work. Here he was choosing her over work and now she was choosing work over him. He didn't like it.  _You're a selfish arse, Sherlock._

Her face fell. "Don't be like that, Sherlock, it's only four weeks. And there's no reason you can't come visit me, is there?"

"No." He gave her a small smile and embraced her. "I'll be happy for you eventually—maybe once you've returned," he sighed. "Is this where you begin collecting your hundreds of lovers?"

"I'll let you know," she answered cheekily.

He growled and kissed her fiercely, hands holding her face to his.

Breathless, she whispered, "You are the only lover I want."

"Good." He smiled.

"But," she went on, "I've been far to easy on you, you know." She shot him a devious look.

His eyes narrowed. "In what respect?"

"Well, while I was home I had time to do a _lot_ of thinking—I even started my own mind palace.”

“Really?” Sherlock looked astonished.

“No, you barmy fool,” she laughed. “But, I was thinking how most men have to take their ladies on a few dates, buy them dinner at least, before they skip to the good stuff.” She gave him a mischievous smile. “You’ve sort of gotten round all that."

"I'm not most men, as you well know," he said arrogantly. "I don't do dates, I do _adventures._ I took you undercover with me. I took you on holiday."

"Yeah...well..." she pulled a face. "I was hoping for something a little less dangerous and a lot less Mycroft-filled."

Affronted, he thought about those two so-called adventures for a moment and had to concede she had a point. “Well, what about all those times we spent at coffee shops?”

“Seriously? Half the time you wandered off and left me with the bill.”

"Fine.” He rolled his eyes. “Perhaps we can have dinner at my flat before you leave."

Sophie looked surprised and pleased. "Are you going to cook?"

His eyes slid sideways. "Someone's going to cook," he said dryly. "Pray that it isn't me."

…………………………………….

Sophie arrived at Sherlock's room the night before she was to travel to the continent. Her train wouldn't leave until the following afternoon so she and Sherlock had a generous amount of time to say their goodbyes. She nervously adjusted her flowy, strapless dress and the silky scarf she had arranged across her shoulders. Her hair was in its signature thick braid down her back. Sherlock swept open the door before she had a chance to knock.

"Darling," he said dramatically and swept her into his arms. "You look lovely."

"Alright," she laughed, "don't lay it on too thick."

“Why not?” he purred and kissed her until she was pressed against the wall and they were both flushed.

“What's that amazing smell?” Sophie finally interrupted.

"Dinner," he breathed in her ear then proceeded to nibble her ear lobe.

She shivered and pushed him away. "Let's not let it go to waste, eh?"

He pulled a face and released her with a huff. "Fine."

Sophie peered around him into the dim, candle lit room to see that he had cleaned off his desk and moved it to the center of the room. It was draped with a tablecloth and set with crystal and china and covered food dishes.

He pulled out a chair for her and she sat down.

"Wow, Sherlock. I was expecting Chinese take away on the floor or something."

"You should have learned not to underestimate me by now," he smirked, filling her glass with wine then uncovering her plate with a flourish.

"Ok, Casanova," she said sarcastically before taking a bite. "Mmm. Wait, is this Mark's cooking? "

Sherlock looked surprised. "Yes, good observation. He sends you his best wishes."

"Aw. So, he and Mycroft are still a thing, huh?"

"A thing? Sometimes your prowess with the English language astounds me,” he said loftily. 

"Shut up!"

"How about cease and desist?"

"I'm going to be the one desisting if you don't behave," she said, giving him a pointed look.

Sherlock laughed and Sophie joined him.

"You're in an awfully cheery mood for a man whose lover is going away for a month. Have you got some kind of nefarious plans for while I'm away?"

"Oh, ‘nefarious.’ Better. I knew you had it in you." Sophie scowled and punched his arm.

"First thing while you're away, I'm signing you up for boxing lessons because that was pathetic. After that it could be anything from binge drinking and gentleman's clubs to life-saving research and making rugby players cry."

"Yeah, I'm really worried." She rolled her eyes. "Just try to eat and sleep some while I'm away."

"Mmm." While they ate they talked of train travel—she was excited to be going through the Chunnel—and France and things to see while she was there. She would not be studying in Paris but in a small town outside the city. They made plans for Sherlock to come visit in two weeks and take her sightseeing in the French capitol, though he rolled his eyes when she mentioned the Eiffel Tower.

As Sophie finished her dessert Sherlock stood and pulled something from a dark corner. It was a violin.

"No way,” she said, eyes wide. “How have I not known about this?”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked. "Shhh."

Dessert was forgotten as he began to play. Sherlock never did anything half way so she took it for granted he'd be good, but she hadn't expected his playing to be so warm and emotional. All this time she'd thought of him as a coldly rational scientist, but he was an artist, too. As he played the room fell away and there was nothing but the two of them and the beautiful music. He didn't tell her he’d written the song for her, but he didn't have to. In the notes, she recognized the strange bird song she'd heard in the woods by his cottage. The whole composition felt like that day, light and magical and tinged with a deeper, more carnal thread. She was teary eyed and speechless and could only applaud when he finished.

He bowed then put the violin away and collapsed heavily in his leather armchair. "I'm going to be utterly bored," he sighed dramatically. "Change your mind and stay."

"Frankly I can't believe you're not already bored. With me," she said in a small voice.

He frowned. "Why would you say that?"

"Because you…you’re _you_ and I’m me and not that interesting. I've never met anyone like you, Sherlock." She paused and shook her head. "You never stop surprising me. You're brilliant and talented—"

"And arrogant and obnoxious and cruel and selfish," he finished for her. "Sophie, you surprise me every time you forgive me for those faults. You surprise me every time you smile at me."

She couldn't help but smile at that.

"See, there you go again," he chuckled.

She crossed the room, climbed onto his lap and kissed him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close and kissed her back until her doubts were gone.

Sophie felt warm from the wine and a bit daring. "I can think of one other thing that would surprise you." She pulled the scarf from around her neck and tied it around his eyes.

"Sophie," he frowned as she scrambled out of his reach.

"Stand up," she commanded. He complied and she began to slowly unbutton his shirt. She opened the front letting her fingertips trail over his chest. Smiling when he shivered, she bent to flick her tongue over his nipples. Sherlock gasped and brought his arms up to hold her. "No touching," she giggled.

He pouted but obeyed. She unbuckled his belt and slid it out of the loops. Folding it over, she snapped it hard, making him jump.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," he rumbled.

"Oh, really? Don't cross me or I will turn your pale ass scarlet...” She tried to sound fierce but he could hear the smile in her voice.

After relieving him of his clothing, she guided him to the bed and pushed him down onto it. Then she leaned forward and wrapped her tongue around the head of his cock. Sherlock let out a shocked groan as his hips involuntarily rolled upward.

“You like that?”

“Yes,” he hissed, hands clenched in the sheets.

“Want me to do it some more? Say, ‘please.’”

“Sophie,” he warned.

“Say it,” she demanded

“Please,” he growled.

Before the word had completely passed his lips she slid him far into her mouth, enjoying the very inelegant moan that escaped his throat. She swept her tongue over the velvety hardness of his cock, tracing every contour, every crevice while Sherlock threatened to come undone. 

She paused and enjoyed watching him pant and squirm. "Oh, guess what? I'm not wearing any knickers tonight. Which makes it very easy to do this." She sat astride his erection and lowered herself, just slightly onto him. Tilting her hips she teased him over and over, only allowing him in just a bit. He could feel how wet she was and wanted more. He bucked against her trying to go deeper, but she pulled away each time he was close to succeeding.

"None of that now. Be good," she admonished. 

 _But, I'm not good,_ he thought, _and this won't do at all._ He pulled the scarf from his eyes and gave her a dark smile.

"Sherlock,” she frowned, “you're not behav—"

Before she could finish, he reached up and pulled her down onto his cock, filling her roughly as she gasped. "It's not wise to tease dangerous people, Sophie," he said. Pulling out, he flipped her onto her back and straddled her. "If you wanted to dominate, you should have tied my hands not my eyes."

Her gray eyes widened as he stretched her arms above her head and quickly tied her wrists to the brass frame. "Sherlock!"

"Frightened, my pet?"

"Maybe a little," she squeaked.

Suddenly serious, he said, "I would never hurt you."

"I know." She lowered her eyes and said shyly, "But sometimes I like it." Now it was out. The thing she could never tell her previous lovers. They wouldn’t have known what to do with that information—even she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

A feral gleam flashed in Sherlock eyes. "Again, always surprising me. I take it back, I will only hurt you as much as you want me to. We're going to need a safe word," he grinned wickedly.

"A what?"

"Don't play coy, Sophie Gordon. I know you know what I'm talking about. The erotic books hidden under your bed have not escaped my notice," he smirked.

"Nothing ever does," she muttered, turning several alarming shades of red.

He smiled at her crimson cheeks. "What a little hypocrite you are. Always blushing like an innocent maid when talking about sex, yet such a little minx in bed. Mmm, I do so like you like this, tied to my bed, dress askew like that day at the standing stones. But as I've tied you up I can't make you touch yourself. Oh, well, I guess I shall have to do it myself." He slid a finger into her wetness as she mewed in approval.

"How about Rubidium?" he asked as she bucked against his hand.

"What?" Her eyes were unfocused.

"For a safe word. Do keep up." He added a second finger and pressed deeper.

" _Yes!_ I mean no, not that," she panted.

He paused. “Mitochondria?”

"No," she said then grinned mischievously. "How about Mycroft?" 

Sherlock pulled his fingers out and looked at her in disgust. "While I think that might possibly be the most effective safe word ever created, I do not want to hear you cry my brother's name during intercourse whether it's under duress or not." He shuddered. "No."

She laughed. "How about...dandelion?"

He thought a moment and shrugged. "Fine. Now where were we?" He slid three long fingers in and curled them upward, watching with smug satisfaction as he reduced Sophie to a writhing, orgasmic mess.  _One down, two to go._

 


	25. Chapter 25

Like any good scientist Sherlock craved more data. He let Sophie languish only a moment before he released her tether from the headboard and divested her of the rest of her clothing. He knelt next to her and pulled her over his lap, stomach resting on his knees. Her wrists were still bound making it harder to balance as she lay on his legs. She squirmed and could feel his erection poking against her belly.

Smack! When Sherlock’s hand met her bare ass, the sound was as shocking as the sensation and immediately roused her from her post-climax haze. "Be still," he demanded.

“Ow!  _Sherlock_.”

“What’s the safe word?”

“D-dandelion.” 

“Do not hesitate to use it if you need to. 'No,' 'stop' and 'don’t' are meaningless here.”

 _Is he really serious?_ “But—”

Smack! “Pay attention! Answer this: is it that you merely crave pain during sexual encounters or is it that you want pain and pleasure given at the whim of a dominate sexual partner who is in complete control of the situation?"

“Um, what? Sherlock, I can’t really think right now—”

Smack! Pain like fire radiated across her ass cheek and she could picture in her mind the glowing red outline of his hand on her pale skin.  _“Fuck!”_

“Yes, eventually. Still waiting for you to answer the question.”

She tried to ignore the burning as she quickly pondered which option to choose. “Th…the second one?”

“Good girl. So, you have a tendency toward submission. Luckily for you, I've done extensive research on that and also find the dominant/submissive relationship very intriguing.” He lightly rubbed circles on her burning skin. He found dark pleasure in seeing the mark of his hand on her flesh.  _Mine._  

“Did you tell your other partners about this kink of yours?”

“No,” she answered quickly, relieved to have an easy question.

“Why not?

“Because I was too shy.”

Smack!

“ _Ow!_  I answered the question, dammit!”

“Incorrectly. Try again.”

Sophie panicked. What was the correct answer?

Smack!

"I don't know!"

Smack! She gritted her teeth and tried to forget she’d ever heard the word ‘dandelion.’ She would not say it, she would _not_ give in. A small voice told her she needed this, that this is what she'd been waiting for and Sherlock was proving he was the right one to take her on this journey.

“Because...," she panted through the pain, "Because, I didn’t trust them?”

“Exactly.” This time he slid his fingers into her dripping folds and swiped his thumb over her clit. She moaned and pushed back against his fingers. Pain and burning were all mixed up with pleasure and wetness until she couldn’t separate the two. 

Sherlock lifted her from his lap and positioned her on her knees, ass in the air and bound wrists stretched out before her. “I love looking at you like this,” he said as he moved behind her, pausing a moment to appreciate the red welts on her rear end. Desperate to feel her around him, he plunged his cock into her dripping depths. Rocking in and out while alternating stinging slaps across her cheeks, he thrust harder and harder. Pain, pleasure, pain pleasure; it melded into one overwhelming sensation that filled her entirely until she vibrated with built up pressure.

“Sophie, you make me want to do the most ungentlemanly things to you and I promise I will."

His deep voice made her shiver with fear and anticipation.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to come?”

“Yes,” she whimpered.

“Say, ‘please,’” he taunted her, jaws clenched. He wasn’t going to last much longer himself.

_“Please.”_

Sherlock rewarded her by reaching around and pressing his fingers to the nub of her clit. Muscles rippled and tightened and stars burst behind her eyelids and she was coming and coming and coming. Sounds were leaving her body that would make her blush to think of later, but she couldn’t worry about that while she was shattering into a thousand pieces under his hand. Somewhere above her she heard Sherlock finish with a growl and a gasp, digging his fingers into her flesh hard enough to leave bruises. She felt the heat of him pouring out and filling her until he pulled away with a sigh. 

_That’s two._

 


	26. Chapter 26

Sherlock reached up and untied Sophie, and she rolled limply onto her side. Brain buzzing with endorphins, she felt drunk. “What did you do to me?” she asked in awe.

“Unlocked a truth.” His words were arrogant but his tone matched Sophie’s.

He lay catching his breath for a moment then forced himself to his feet and padded to the bathroom. From what he'd read, it was a big responsibility to sexually dominate a partner. He had to know her limits and push them enough to keep her interested but not far enough to do permanent harm. He had to make her feel safe with him and had to care for her afterward. He'd never taken care of anyone before but he found he did not mind. It was only another way of touching Sophie and he enjoyed touching her. After cleaning himself up, he came back with a cold, wet flannel. He first used it to cool her overheated buttocks, then to gently clean down below. Afterward he brought a glass of cold water for them to share. She drank deeply then mumbled thanks and curled drowsily into a ball. Sherlock lay beside her and traced equations across her back while analyzing the new data he'd obtained.

He'd never realized the power inherent in the physical act he’d eschewed for so long. Sex had never held much allure for him because no person had held any allure for him until Sophie. Before he met her, when his urges became too strong, he'd taken care of them with as much thought as he had his hunger pains. It was something you fixed, then you got back to work. He had feared loss of control, but with Sophie he'd quickly learned to relish the feeling. Now he could have both—here was a whole new way for him to exercise control. It was dark and dangerous and fulfilling.

This was cerebral sex that allowed those who knew how, to play the limbic system like an instrument. Fear balanced with arousal, pain with pleasure, could unleash a host of chemicals in the brain—dopamine, adrenaline, endorphins and others. All were at your disposal if you knew how to tap into them. It was complicated and needed careful observation to be done well. He liked being good at things and he knew he'd be very good at this. Not even the subtlest cues would escape his notice—her heart rate, the dilation of her pupils, the fluttering of her inner walls when her climax was near. All these things were as clear as data on any routine experiment he'd ever run, but he had never been so personally invested in the results. And this was an experiment that could hold his interest for quite sometime. There were so many variables to try. 

Though he'd been fatigued only moments earlier, these possibilities aroused him again. And there was a little matter of the goal he'd set. He rolled Sophie over gently and sucked one of her pink nipples in his mouth as she sighed sleepily. He reached down between her legs and she squirmed away, still too sensitive.

"No, no I'm done," she muttered wearily.

Wrapping her long, disheveled braid around his fist he tugged her head back gently but firmly. "You're done when I say, my pet," he breathed low in her ear making her shiver. "I'm determined for one more." He kissed and bit her lightly along her jawline.

"You're going to break me," she whimpered, eyes shut.

"No. I'm creating you," he said softly. "And you're creating me."  _Look what beautiful monsters we are._

She opened her eyes and looked at him as if she'd never seen him before. He saw fear there.

"You're afraid. What are you afraid of?"

"That I can't."

"You're afraid of disappointing me," he clarified.

She looked away.

"There's no disappointment here, Sophie; no failure—not for you. If the wrong notes are played, it's my fault. Do I have your permission to try?"  

Her eyes swung back to his and she nodded. "But gentle, OK?"

"I'll be gentle until you need more," he smiled.

He took a deep drink of water then bent to slide his cold tongue along her cleft. She gasped as it met her clit with the lightest of flicks. Soothing and arousing all at once, he continued this way for a while—cooling his tongue and softly lapping her swollen folds. He could taste his own ejaculate commingled with her juices as he carefully slid one finger into her. When she barely responded he realized she was perhaps too wet and her delicate nerves were spent.  _Time to test a new variable._  He dipped one finger in her wetness then pressed it against the tighter hole below.  _Yes, plenty of untapped nerve endings here._  

She flinched. " _No,_  Sherlock. Oh, my god!" she said in response to the intrusion. 

"Obviously this your first experience with anal play. Do try to relax," he said in a smug instructional tone.

She gritted her teeth. "Why shouldn't I be tense? You've never done this before either." She could feel sweat forming on her brow as he pressed deeper.

"No, but I have intimate knowledge of how the body works," he said with a confidence he almost felt. "Just breathe."

"I can't—"

"Relax and breathe or use the safe word," he said sternly, arching a brow at her. "Which will it be?"

Her mouth opened then clamped shut as she glared at him. 

Sherlock suppressed a chuckle. She did not like him right now but she wouldn't give in either. He felt her deepen her breathing and try to relax.  _Good girl._  Knowing diversion would be a useful tool to make her more comfortable, he worked two fingers in and out of her vagina while one pushed in slowly below. For Sophie it was hard to focus on either sensation entirely and eventually she succumbed to a blissful and forbidden sensation of fullness. Her breathing grew harsher as he continued and when he finally pushed all the way into both she arched her back off the bed with a strangled cry. 

"Mmm, now I have your attention."

He could probably bring her to climax like this but he wanted to be inside her. He gently disengaged his fingers and moved to arrange the pillows against the headboard. He turned and sat leaning against them, legs stretched out. "Come here," he beckoned. "Finish what you started earlier. You can set the pace and the pressure."

Her legs were shaky as she climbed over him but he was patient and helpful. She lowered herself onto him and used the brass railing behind his shoulders as leverage. He reached around and slowly unbraided her hair, never taking his eyes from hers. He spread her golden waves out across her shoulders and over her breasts. This position had unique advantages, Sherlock noted. Gravity aided in her efforts to take him deeply and they could look into each other's eyes. His arms were free to hold her, his hands to touch her wherever he wished. He watched with pleasure as her breasts swung with her motions. He squeezed them roughly and pinched her nipples, cataloguing her reaction. When she leaned forward to kiss him her hair covered them like a veil.

They kissed languidly to match her pace. His hands slid to her ass and cupped her cheeks, feeling her muscles work as she moved up and down. He gripped her and helped her move by adding his strength to hers. Their kissing became more urgent until it became biting. Sherlock tasted blood in his mouth from his lower lip where Sophie's teeth pierced him. He tilted her head back bit hard into the muscle connecting her neck and shoulder as she rocked faster over him. Her eyes were closed in concentration and sweat had curled the hair around her face and caused it to stick to her chest and neck. Sherlock thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful and took a mental picture to save for later. 

Sensing she was struggling he pushed his finger inside her ass again and felt her tense. Studying her face carefully, he knew it wasn't pain that was the problem, it was that she was embarrassed. She needed reassurance. Perhaps it was time to practice some dirty talk.

"Sophie, you look so utterly debauched riding my cock. I want to feel you flood me when you come again," he breathed hotly in her ear. He was surprised to find the words came so easily and that he meant them. He was also pleased to find them immediately effective.

Sophie kissed him hard as her hips pumped faster and she pushed herself further onto his finger. Evidently they'd worked on him as well. His higher cognitive functioning flickered and stalled and he stopped thinking about experiments and variables and data and started thinking about hearing her scream his name. All pretense was gone, all romantic notions of beauty or seduction or masculine prowess. They were nothing but raw and sticky and sweaty hot beings breathing raggedly, bodies making wet sounds, working toward that moment of blindness where you can see everything clearly and nothing at all. Sherlock found it impossibly lewd and incredibly arousing.  _Not yet, not yet._

Jaw clenched, he growled, "Sophie, tell me you're mine, that you would let me do anything I want to you."

"Yes," she gasped.  _"Please,"_  she added unbidden.

With his free hand he pressed his thumb to her clit and drew circles around it. Her brow furrowed and she cried out. She let go of the bed frame and raked her nails across his shoulders.  _"Sherlock!"_ She kissed him clumsily, desperately as she whimpered and shuddered and her orgasm came crashing through her like pain and fire and surrender. 

The expression on her face as she climaxed aroused in Sherlock again a dark desire to hurt her, mark her with his teeth, brand his name on her. _Mine._ He gripped her hips and adjusted the angle of her body to better suit him, thrusting upward into her until he found his own release. Sophie collapsed against him, her head leaning on his as they both struggled to catch their breath. They remained unmoving for a while in the profoundly fragile postlude of such a thoroughly primal fucking. 

They were both thoroughly spent but Sherlock wouldn't shirk his aftercare duties. As much as he would have liked to carry her to the shower, he didn't trust his legs. With much prodding he got her there, got them both washed and tucked back into his bed, him curled around her like he was afraid she might get away. 

……………………………..

They slept, yes, even Sherlock, until late in the morning. Both woke sore and rumpled and grinning like children. They lay tangled and drowsy and sated for what felt like hours, touching and kissing lazily but no more. As the day wore on, they finally roused themselves to get dressed. Sherlock called a cab and they drove to Sophie’s room to get her bags and go the station.

Checking the schedule, Sophie said. “Bollocks, my departure is delayed. That’s OK, you don’t have to wait with me.”

“I can stay.”

“Don’t you have to supervise a lab tonight?”

“Yes,” he grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”

“Well, you better get going.”

“If I must. I’m still hoping to convince you not to go.”

She smiled. “Don’t be so greedy.”

“How can you say that? You know what you taste like,” he said, his voice deep and seductive.

“Sherlock,” she chided, looking around and blushing furiously. "You're still coming to visit in two weeks, right?"

He shrugged. "If nothing better comes up."

"Git."

Sherlock smiled secretively, he was planning to surprise her with a visit in exactly three days.

“Here, in case you accidentally delete me.” She handed him a photograph. It was the one he’d taken of her at the standing stones.

His mouth opened but for a moment he said nothing as he stared at the picture. Then he said quietly, “I don’t think that’s possible, but thank you.” 

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," she blurted, her gray eyes wide and shining.

"I know," he replied smoothly but his heart jumped. It was foolishly sentimental to want to hear those words as much as he did. 

"I'm sorry I haven't said it sooner. I think I've still been in shock that you said it first."

"And you weren't sure I meant it," he smiled ruefully.

She looked thoughtful a moment. "No, I wasn't sure you knew what it meant. I no longer have any doubts." She smiled and threw her arms around his neck and whispered in his ear, "Say it again, please."

He put his lips against her ear and, in his deepest purr, murmured, "I love you, Sophie Gordon."


	27. Chapter 27

It was a rainy day in London as Sherlock perused the aisles of the shop, taking his time with each item. Normally he wasn't much of a shopper, but given the right motivation he could be very discriminating. He rolled his eyes at the hot pink, rabbit-shaped dildo in his hand. _This won't do at all._  As an artist Sophie would cringe at anything so bizarre looking. Unfortunately most of the sex toys in the fetish shop were not aesthetically pleasing and this was the most tasteful and well-stocked store he'd found so far.

It was difficult to find the balance between effectiveness and attractiveness, form and function. It seemed most everything was designed to look utterly ridiculous. They were too rubbery, or too large, too brightly colored or shaped like silly animals or cartoon characters which completely baffled him. Finally he found one, a new type made of velvety, plum-colored silicone—purple he could live with. Made in Germany and looking somewhat like a piece of sculpture it had an anal plug to match. Though they were pricey he dropped them in his shopping basket next to the leather cuffs, black rope and lubricant. Oh, the lubricant aisle had nearly been his undoing. Studying the ingredients of each one he was intrigued by the types of chemicals used and began to lose focus as, in his head, he concocted what he was sure were more effective formulas. 

In the punishment aisle couldn't chose between flogger and riding crop so he got both. _Nipple clamps? Maybe later, don't want to go overboard._ He smiled to think of how Sophie would blush when he showed her his purchases. She would blush, but in the dark, in his bed, she would love it when he used them on her. His cock twitched at the thought. As he took one last look around he thought how badly someone needed to scientifically engineer some of these items. Perhaps he could have some custom ones made based on his findings and experiments with Sophie. He smirked to himself and thought,  _Mycroft would love it if I became a designer of sex devices._

Checking the post when he returned to his flat from London, Sherlock chuckled at the postcard that he found. It said:

"Things to do while I’m away:

1\. Eat  
2\. Sleep.  
3\. Miss me terribly.

Love, Sophie (now you have it in writing)"

She must have sent it from the train station while she was waiting alone. A warm feeling of happy anticipation spread through him as he thought of her and how he'd be seeing, touching and tasting her soon—tomorrow, in fact. He only packed a few of the new items in his bag—there's was no need to rush things, they had all the time in the world. 

…………………………………………...

When he arrived at Sophie's hostel he was greeted, or rather ignored by a rude teenaged clerk slumped over a manga comic. Speaking perfect French, Sherlock asked after Sophie. The boy barely looked at him or the registration book and muttered, "She is out." 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the boy but didn't allow his good mood to falter. He stepped back out into the sunshine of the small French town and began to wander. _Maybe I'll run into her, act like it's a coincidence._ He smiled as he imagined the look on her face. He passed a cafe on the town square that looked exactly like the kind of place she'd love to sit and read or sketch. Sophie wasn't there. He strolled to the church with the rare iconic paintings that she'd been excited to see. Sophie wasn't there either.

He didn't find her at the market or any of the little shops that were tucked around the square. His excitement began to turn into annoyance and he started to wonder if surprising her had been such a good idea. As the sun sank lower, he headed back toward the hostel to wait. This time an older woman who was clearly the manager was at the front desk. The sullen boy, who Sherlock could see resembled her, sat still hunched over his comic, occasionally aiming scowls at his mother. The manager looked up when Sherlock asked about Sophie and flipped through her registration book, frowning at it. She said, "I'm sorry monsieur, she is not staying here." 

Sherlock blinked. "But he," pointing at the boy, "said she was out."

“Casse-cul," she muttered, glaring at the boy. "I’m sorry my son said she was out. What he should have said is she never arrived.”

Sherlock's memory of what occurred after hearing those words flickers like a damaged filmstrip—he deleted all unessential information as he focused on finding Sophie. _Picked another hostel?_ He does not remember whether he ran or took a cab to the train station, but he remembers asking about Sophie's luggage and it being pointed out to him in the unclaimed baggage storage room. _Bumped her head, got amnesia? Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock._ He does not remember what phone he used or how he found the number, but he remembers calling Sophie's parents. Upon hearing she was not there, he knows he told them she was missing because he remembers the panicked sounds they made though not the actual words. _Ran away from home…and me? Not likely._  He does not remember how he found the local gendarmerie but he remembers urging, pleading with the officers to look for her as they kept on asking question after question. _I have to find her._ _Where could she be?_

Through it all he steadfastly ignored the crushing pain in his chest and the panic pounding at the inside of his skull like an animal desperate to escape a cage. 

……………………………………... 

It was very late when the phone rang, waking the two men huddled in bed. Accustomed to late night calls, Mycroft answered the phone sounding as if he'd been awake and alert. "Yes?"

"Sophie is missing, she should have arrived at her hostel three days ago. Her luggage is still unclaimed at the train station. I've called her parents, I've alerted the local police but you know how they are, they don't seem alarmed and they need to be looking for her, everyone needs to be looking for her, I...I have to find her. Mike…" Sherlock's voice broke as he used the nickname for his brother that he hadn't uttered since they were children.

Mycrofts eyes closed and his forehead creased as if he were in pain.

Quietly, he said, "I'll put my best team on it…"

There was an exhalation of breath from Sherlock's end if the phone.

"...provided you come home immediately."

"But I need to—"

"No, you need to go back to the beginning, retrace her steps, talk to the police and my people," Mycroft reasoned.

"Yeah…OK. I'll catch the next train back."

Mycroft hung up the phone and sat on the edge of the bed deep in thought. Mark's hand on his shoulder roused him.

"What's going on? Is it Sherlock?" he murmured sleepily.

"Sophie is missing."

"Oh, my god." He scrubbed a hand over his face trying to wake up. "When? How?"

Mycroft turned and smiled sadly at him and instead of answering his questions asked, "Did I ever tell you the story of Redbeard?" 

"Ah, no." Mark answered, looking confused.

"It didn't have a happy ending." Mycroft turned and stared at the wall as if looking across a great distance. "When Sherlock was eight we discovered the family dog was ill and wouldn't recover. I say family dog, but he was really Sherlock's dog. He was a lonely boy after I went away to school and the dog was his constant companion. Sherlock pleaded with our parents to save him but nothing could be done and the animal was suffering. The day they drove away with him Sherlock went missing."

"Most children when they run away don't go far and come home when they get hungry. Sherlock was not like most children. He was gone a week before we finally tracked him down, filthy, hungry and dehydrated up in a tree. Half delirious, he still refused to come home. He said he wanted to find a place where no one could hurt him."

"Our father said we shouldn't force him, that he needed to come home on his own or he'd never forgive them. We brought him food and water and a blanket and left him there. For three days we'd visit him and bring him more food. The third night there was a terrible lightning storm."

"Our parents were, of course, very distressed and about to go collect him when the door opened and he came in drenched with rain. He was never quite the same afterward. He couldn't find a place where no one could hurt him so he built it in his mind. He keeps himself distant from others for a reason, though I'm not sure he even remembers that reason. Sherlock is not resilient when those he loves are harmed or taken from him. He cannot simply endure like most people."

"Well, maybe she'll be found…" Mark said hopefully.

Mycroft looked at him with something like envy. "I wish I could delude myself. I fear there's no happy ending here either—he hasn't just lost a pet this time."

"He's not a child anymore..."

"No," Mycroft sighed. "It'll be much worse." He covered Mark's hand with his own. "Go back to sleep if you can, I have phone calls to make."

Mark squeezed his shoulder. "No, I'll go make us some coffee."


	28. Chapter 28

It took Sherlock a long while to return to London. Like a man possessed, he stopped at each station along Sophie's original route. He interviewed employees, checked the lost and found and looked to see if the stations had surveillance devices. Unfortunately, the smaller ones, like the station in France that had been her destination, had no cameras.

At every stop he had the constant and uncanny feeling that she was just on the edge of his peripheral vision. His heart would skip and he'd turn to look, but it wouldn't be her, just someone with blond hair or a shirt like hers or no one at all. Every time he found he'd been mistaken felt like a tiny sliver of glass embedded itself in his heart, not fatal but painful nonetheless.

As he arrived at the bustling train station in London that would have been the first stop on her journey, he looked up and saw multiple cameras aimed at the loading areas. The police should already be studying the footage. 

“May I see your lost and found?” he asked at the ticket desk.

A canvas laundry wagon stuffed with coats and umbrellas and even a set of golf clubs was wheeled out of storage. Sophie’s shoulder bag was on top.

Sherlock's heart pounded and he itched to grab it. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he asked as calmly as he could, “That bag...who turned it in and when?”

“The conductor," said the office manager. "Found it three days ago I believe he said.”

“I need...could I have it? The owner is missing and I'm trying to find her.”

The older man looked Sherlock up and down suspiciously. “You a copper?”

“No. A friend.”

The man frowned. “Well, if your friend is really missing then the police will be involved and they can come claim it," he said, wheeling the cart away.

Sherlock didn’t argue, merely waited by the cafe tense and anxious to get going. As soon as the manager walked away for tea, Sherlock slipped into the office and took Sophie’s bag.

Inside, he’d hoped to find a revelation or relief of some kind, perhaps a note saying, “It’s all a game. Come and find me you barmy genius.” Instead, he found her passport, wallet, her sketchbook—necessary items that she would not willingly leave behind. Another sliver slid into his heart.

……………………………………...

In Mycroft’s London office, Sherlock sat slumped and pale in a chair in the corner of the conference room as his brother spoke to two agents he’d never seen before. Occasionally they asked him questions. He would answer briefly, then, feeling the insistent tug of his mind palace, drift back into his own thoughts. He knew he must be missing something. There had to be a logical explanation for her absence. It's a basic fact of science that matter is neither created nor destroyed. Sophie was matter, she was somewhere. She mattered to him, he would find her.

Sitting still was proving much harder than actively looking for Sophie. Sitting still gave his mind time to work out every worst case scenario that could have occurred. He glared at his brother and the agents. Why were they still talking? He didn’t need to be here, he should be looking for her. What if she were hurt? What if someone was hurting her? He pictured her afraid and alone and something hot and dangerous bubbled in him. He had the startling revelation that he would not hesitate to kill someone who hurt her. His heart began to race at the thought and he felt a strong desire to put his fist through a wall. It was very poor timing for Mycroft to broach the following delicate subject:

“Sherlock, your relationship with Sophie had taken a rather...unique turn…” Mycroft began, then paused.

“Do you have something to ask me, Mycroft?” Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

“Are you sure your games didn’t go too far? She might have become frightened—“

“No!” Sherlock exploded out of the chair. “And it wasn’t a game. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Mycroft's mouth hung open momentarily at his brother's outburst but he quickly composed himself. “I would ask you to enlighten me but I’d rather not know,” he said in a bored tone. “Do calm down.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him as his face turned into a mask of fury and suspicion. “Did you do this? You tried to buy her off once already. Did you finally make an offer she couldn’t refuse or did you have your agents remove her? I knew you wanted me to focus on my education but I didn’t think you’d go so far—”

Mycroft’s lips pressed into a grim line. “You’re being irrational, Sherlock.”

“Am I? How many other people who’ve displeased you have disappeared?”

“I hardly think she was planning a coup or an assassination attempt—”

“No, she just loves me and you can’t stand that.”

Mycroft winced. “That was never the problem little brother. It was how much _you_ were becoming entangled with her.”

“I'm not 'entangled,'" he sneered. "I love her.” His voice cracked.

“I know," replied Mycroft softly. "Look what it’s doing to you.”

Sherlock’s face fell and he turned and slammed his way out of the room, not stopping until he was on the train again, headed back to where it all started. Every time he closed his eyes he could see her smile, her laughing gray eyes, her soft curves bare in the dappled light of the woods. Without her he felt cut adrift, untethered. A madman in his head was screaming and screaming, _Find her._

………………………………..

When he arrived back in their university town, Sherlock was relieved to see the security cameras located around the station. He’d never bothered to notice them before or had perhaps deleted the memory of their existence. He immediately headed to the police station near the university campus to see if they'd found anything on the surveillance tapes.

He was introduced to two detectives, Barton and Jones who'd been assigned to Sophie's case. Barton was tall and thick and Sherlock could tell he was the alpha of the two, Jones was small and pig-eyed and stupid and, for Sherlock, of no consequence. He sighed, _Small-town police force, what was I thinking coming here?_ Looking down at Sophie's bag clutched in his hands, he reluctantly handed it to Barton for evidence.

The detective narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and took the bag. They ushered him into a stark and depressing interrogation room. _Not again,_ Sherlock thought as he impatiently answered question after question. “Yes, I left her at the station because her train was delayed and I had to supervise a chemistry lab. No, I never saw her get on the train. No, she was not upset when I left. No, I don't have an alibi for earlier in the day—I was with her." The madman in his head was kicking the walls and his temper flared. "Why are you still asking me the same questions? You imbeciles should be looking for her. Didn't you find anything helpful on the footage from the station cameras?”

The detectives looked at one another, then swung their eyes back at him. “Those cameras are just for show, Mr. Holmes. The budget ran out and they were never hooked up.”

Suddenly there was a not-so-subtle shift in the tone of the detectives' questions. “But you already knew that didn’t you?” Jones asked.

Sherlock felt like he was slowly falling backwards down the shaft of a very dark well. Frowning, he asked, “How would I know that?”

“Want to explain again how you came by Sophie Gordon's bag, Mr. Holmes?” asked Barton, ignoring Sherlock's question.

“Weren’t you listening earlier? I told you I got it from the lost and found in London.”

“And they just gave it to you?”

“No…I took it.”

“Why?”

Sherlock was at a loss for a moment. “Because I hoped to find a clue to her whereabouts, obviously.” _And I needed to hold something of hers._

“Or you wanted to tamper with the evidence,” sneered Jones.

“What? No. You people really are incomp—”

“Mind if we search your flat, Mr. Holmes?” Barton asked casually.

“Yes, I do,” he spat. “She’s not there. There’s nothing there.”

“Well, we’ll see about that.” Barton gave Jones a look and the smaller man nodded and left the room.

Barton leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and regarded Sherlock. 

"So you're just going to follow the easiest path, then? The boyfriend did it." Sherlock glared at him shaking his head. "Meanwhile, she's out there somewhere and you're wasting time."

Barton's lips curled into a slight smile. He stood and walked out and Sherlock's jaw dropped as he heard the door lock behind him. He shouted and beat on the steel door to no avail. He paced the small room buzzing with fury while a warrant was procured and his flat was no doubt being ransacked.

Hours later detective Barton entered the room with the calm, smug face of an opponent who thinks he’s already won. Jones strutted in behind him with a malicious smile for Sherlock.

“Is it true you once used Miss Gordon as bait to catch some fellow students making and using date-rape drugs?” Barton asked, looking through a file in front of him.

 _Wonderful. They’ve been talking to her parents._ Sherlock sighed, “Yes. What does that have to do with anything?”

"How did you find out about those drugs? Seems very lucky to me. Just some boffin university student and you figure it all out and make them confess. Very tidy. Little too tidy."

"Yeah," said Jones, his piggy eyes squinting almost closed, "how'd you get them to confess?" He seemed genuinely interested.

"Use your imagination," sneered Sherlock coldly. "Obviously you don't like being shown up by intelligent university students, what's that got to do with finding Sophie?"

“Is it true she came close to being sexually assaulted during your little rogue investigation”

“No.”

“She wasn’t drugged and taken up to a student’s room?”

“Yes, but—”

“You don’t call that close?”

“Not given the fact that I rescued her moments later and she was never touched—”

“Oh, you're a clever one, aren't ya? Had it all under control, did ya Mr. Holmes? You like to play the clever hero. Like to be in control don’t ya?” Detective Jones mocked.

Sherlock clenched his jaw and refused to answer.

“We found the rope Mr. Holmes,” Barton said in a quiet, deadly tone. “At your flat. And the manacles and the riding crop. Someone’s been a naughty boy, eh? And the French police are still scratching their heads over some of the items found in the bag you left behind at her hostel. Seems like you were prepared to keep someone against her will and punish her if she tried to escape. Maybe she found out and disappeared herself.”

“You couldn’t possibly be more wrong if you made an effort. Speaking of effort, are you even looking for her? Have you talked to the station workers? Found any witnesses? Have you checked around the route to see if she could have fallen from the train?”

“Oh, is that what you did? Throw her from the train when she said she didn’t want to be your little sex slave?”

“My what? This is ridiculous, charge me or let me go look for her!” He slammed his palm against the table.

Detective Barton chuckled. “I don’t need to charge you, Mr. Holmes. You’re going to confess.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock and helpless rage and for a moment the madman in him won. He blinked and the next thing he knew he was trying to hurl a chair at the smug detective. The two men grabbed him as two more officers ran in to assist. It took all four of them to subdue him and cuff him to the heavy table which was bolted to the floor. Sherlock panted and glared at them balefully. He could taste blood in his mouth where he'd been hit in the struggle.

After that they wasted no time trying to break him. As they peppered him with question after question, Sherlock retreated into his mind palace and sat stone faced through it all. He could try to tell them, explain about his and Sophie’s relationship but that was private and he didn’t like to share things that made him happy with others. He didn’t want to hear them put the taint of their stupidity all over it. For hours they shouted and slammed their fists on the table. They withheld water and wouldn’t allow him to sleep and were frustrated that it didn't seem to bother him. Furious at his impenetrable silence, Barton grabbed him and started to shake him.

“No, mate,” his short partner said. “There’s other ways that don’t leave bruises.” He smiled ominously. "I got something I been wanting to try and it's the perfect weather for it."

Sherlock, still cuffed, was dragged protesting loudly down the hall. Just as they passed the main office, Sophie’s parents stepped out. Her mother’s eyes were red-rimmed and she was wringing her hands while Mr. Gordon looked shell-shocked.

“Tell them to look for her!” Sherlock shouted at them. “These idiots are not looking for her!”

Sophie’s father lunged at him and threw him against the wall.

“Where is she? What did you do to her? What did you use her for this time?”

"I would never hurt her—”

“Looks like we’re not the only ones unconvinced of your innocence, eh Mr. Holmes?” sneered Barton as he helped separate Sherlock from Sophie's father.

"We'll take care of him sir. Don't you worry."

Sherlock looked at Sophie's mother and she looked back with a world of sorrow and fear in her eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "But I had nothing to do with this. I want to find her, too."

She bit her lip and turned away.

 

Getting Sherlock into the car was like trying to put a cat in a bag. They were all sweaty and breathless by the time they shoved him in and shackled his feet to the loop in the floorboard. 

“Where are you taking me?” he spat.

"You'll see, Mr. Holmes," Jones said as he climbed behind the wheel. He drove to the top of a deserted parking garage while Barton followed in another car.

“Let’s see if you like being tied up against your will,” he laughed as he exited the car, shutting the door and leaving Sherlock behind.

"You sure about this?" he heard Barton ask Jones. 

Jones shrugged. "Someone's gotta be the first. Let's grab a bite while he's thinking it over." They got into Barton's car and drove away. 

Sherlock looked around, there was nothing outside the windows except blank pavement and concrete walls and a clear blue sky. The sun was blazing on the roof of the car and the temperature inside was climbing quickly. He knew they weren’t likely to leave him here to die, but if they'd never before attempted this method of "persuasion" they might vastly underestimate how quickly a human could succumb to heat stroke. Unable to wipe it away, the sweat dripping in his eyes and off his nose began to annoy him. Shoulders burning with the strain of his arms being held behind his back, Sherlock struggled in vain against the steel cuffs. He vowed to learn how to pick any lock even with his eyes closed. It continued to get hotter and he was drenched in sweat and thirsty. He licked as much sweat off his upper lip as he could and moved to the shadiest part of the car, not that it helped. With his feet shackled he couldn’t even kick out the windows for a breath of fresh air. 

Numbers and logic had always been his friends, now they cruelly mocked him with data he really didn’t want. In approximately 20 minutes the temperature would probably reach 50 degrees or higher. He would die if they left him here too long. His thoughts drifted in a direction he'd been fighting since he'd found out Sophie was missing. If she had been taken by someone, the likelihood of a kidnap victim being alive after three days and no ransom note was… _No! Delete._

The hot air in the car seared his lungs as he pulled against the cuffs. His throat felt full of ashes, making him cough. He licked his lip and found it dry. His skin felt like it was on fire. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror and saw his face was blood red but there was no more sweat on his brow. He closed his eyes and willed his breathing to slow and his heart to stop racing. His head began to swim and he wished desperately for fresh air.

 _They can’t do this. I need to find Sophie. Mycroft will destroy them._  Oh, Mycroft. He’d been horrible to him, maybe he wasn’t coming to help after all. Why should he? After a lifetime of sibling rivalry, he'd probably had enough of Sherlock. Maybe his parents would help if he could contact them somehow. His eyes stung with unshed tears and for the first time since he was a child, Sherlock felt very young, very vulnerable and very alone.

His thoughts began to blur like the heat shimmer on the hood of the car. If Sophie was the one missing why did he feel so lost? When they were together, when he was inside her he felt possessive, he thought of her as his. Now he understood the truth: he was hers. When you belong to someone, when you've given yourself completely and they go away and leave you, what are you? Who are you? _I was hers, I was hers and now she's gone. I don't care where she is, I want to be there, too._

He pictured Sophie's smile. He wanted her, missed her and it was horrible. He wanted to run from this feeling and tried to fight it but he was shutting down. He shuddered involuntarily. His skin began to prickle as if cold and there was a crackling in his ears.  _Not good._  He lay down on the scorching hot vinyl seat and closed his eyes.

_If only I’d stayed with her. Or gone with her. Or insisted she stay. If only…_

 


	29. Chapter 29

Sometimes Molly Hooper talked to the corpses as she performed autopsies on them. It was purely for her own amusement or to keep herself focused. She knew it was morbid and made sure no one was around when she did it. She never believed they could hear her, but as she wheeled out Sophie's body to be released for burial, she paused, leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Thank you for loving him, but please let him go.” 

Once Sophie's body had been taken away and Molly's pile of paperwork completed, she wearily turned off the lights in the morgue lab and boarded the bus that would return her to an empty flat and a very hungry Toby. After a shower she grazed half-heartedly on biscuits and crisps in her kitchen then grabbed a glass of wine and collapsed onto her squishy sofa. Glancing around guiltily as if someone might see, she opened her laptop and started searching for original media coverage of Sophie's case. She'd wanted to do it days ago but with all the work she'd needed to catch up on, she hadn't any time. It felt wrong, like prying, but dammit if Sherlock wasn't going to tell her anything, she'd find out on her own.

She knew from Lestrade that Sherlock had been accused of causing Sophie's disappearance, but strangely none of the old newspaper articles mentioned him at all. Given how much of Sherlock's past had been tabloid fodder before and after he faked his death, Molly began to be suspicious that Mycroft had ordered the whitewashing of this particular part of his brother's history. Even Lestrade, who'd known Sherlock for years had never heard of Sophie until her body turned up. 

Barely able to keep her eyes open, she refused to give up the search. She began to dig into every browser result that mentioned Sherlock and as she went deeper into one particular uber-fan's site she finally found something. The site's creator was devoted to uncovering as much as possible about Sherlock's past and had photographs and scans of the original newspapers from the time of Sophie's disappearance.

Molly wasn't all that surprised that all the circumstantial evidence from Sophie's case had been leaked to the media who wasted no opportunity to turn it into the most salacious story they could, but her eyes grew wide at what some of the articles had suggested about Sherlock. Ropes and manacles? Sadomasochism? She wouldn't have believed any of it if it hadn't matched up with the evidence she'd found on Sophie's body. Bruising, clear signs of intercourse, bite mark on her shoulder, very faint ligature marks on her wrists—she wasn’t tied tightly and whatever was used was soft, but still… Molly shivered when she saw mention of a riding crop.  _Was it the same one he used in the lab?_

When she first met Sherlock she had thought he was gay, then just uninterested, then asexual—her hopes dying more with each new theory. But she'd been wrong—he wanted her, he had loved and been loved, he had done things that she'd only read about in trashy romance novels. She was frightened and jealous and excited and… _aroused,_ which made her flush with shame. She shook her head and quickly closed the laptop.

Tomorrow Molly would get the DNA results from the evidence found on Sophie's body. Still in possession of a small supply of Sherlock's blood left over from faking his death, Molly had also sent a sample of it along with the evidence. She knew in her heart they would match and thought about how easily a prosecutor could see that data as proof of Sherlock's involvement in Sophie's disappearance and death.  

Who was Sherlock really? If she didn’t know him, didn’t love him, would she also find it easy to believe he was responsible for Sophie's death? _No._  He’d always be a mystery, but not the kind that killed people; a dangerous person, but not a murderous person. She knew from his reaction to seeing her body that he’d had no idea where Sophie was and nothing to do with her death.

With that vaguely reassuring thought, Molly shuffled off to bed.

 

…………………………………….

 

Molly woke suddenly and immediately knew someone was in her flat. Before she could get out of bed a familiar silhouette crossed in front of her window. 

"Sherlock! Are you OK?"

He said nothing as he shrugged off his coat and climbed over her, kissing her hard. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes, his face scratchy with stubble, his breath not so good. He kissed her while his hands worked quickly, roughly to rid her of her pajamas. 

She pulled away, gasping, "Sherlock, wait. Talk to me."

This only provoked him to kiss her harder as his fingers groping frantically between her folds, milking wetness from her. All protest died on Molly's lips when a terrible thought crossed her mind: _this could be the last time._ She thought maybe everything was broken now. Maybe Sherlock would retreat into himself again as he sought Sophie's killer. Maybe he'd never come back to her. She clung to him as desperately as he held onto her.

Suddenly Sherlock stopped and sat up. "I need to feel you," he rasped. He tore off his shirt and pulled his trousers roughly down to his knees and covered her again with his body. He roughly thrust into Molly with a groan and buried his face in her neck.

"Sherlock…Sherlock," she gasped and neither of them could tell if she was stopping him or encouraging him to go on. His fingers tangled in her hair, his hip bones ground painfully into hers as if he was trying to completely sink into her. He rocked against her, keeping as much of his flesh pressed to hers as possible.

A car turned the corner of Molly's dark street and for a moment Sherlock's face was illuminated in the beams from the headlamps. His anguished eyes were looking miles, or rather years, away and not at her.  _Oh, God,_ Molly despaired, _he's thinking of her. I won't be able to take it if he calls her name._  She braced herself for the worst.

Sherlock's thrusting became more erratic and he let out a grunt as he poured out his sorrow and loneliness into her. As he shuddered and fell limp against her, he whispered, "Molly…"

Tears of relief slid down her face. "I'm here," she choked out and wrapped her arms around him.

"Molly, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he whispered against her neck.

"No…it's…" she couldn't say it was OK because it really wasn't. "I know," she sighed instead. "Go to sleep. You need rest."

He rolled off her onto the bed and closed his eyes as she ran her fingers through his hair.

When she woke, he was gone.

 

………………………………………. 

 

The next day Sherlock was physically in the morgue lab, but mentally he was digging in dusty evidence boxes in his mind palace when Molly entered after her lunch break.

"Oh, you're here," she breathed. She noticed he was in clean clothes and appeared to have showered. Hopefully the bit of sleep he'd had at her place had helped him somewhat.

He blinked and visions of documents and timelines were replaced by a worried looking Molly.

"Molly, do you have the results yet?"

"Where's John?" she asked, trying to delay the inevitable.

"He's busy. The results?" he repeated, impatience creeping into his voice.

"Yes, just the DNA results so far, but Sherlock...." There were so many things she wanted to ask she didn't know where to begin.

_"Molly?"_

She nodded and picked up the chart with the test data. "She was…her skin was very clean. Washed I would guess. Even under her fingernails. We could only find a tiny amount of epithelial cells and they were…yours. Other than that, there was semen found in the vagina and again,…um it was yours...”

He grimaced. Oh, what the detectives on Sophie's case back then would have given for that bit of incriminating evidence. "Go on," he said.

Molly struggled to keep her voice even and professional. “There was a bite mark on her neck. I couldn't get a saliva sample from it but we could run the dental pattern—"

"Don't bother, it's mine."

"Oh…um, OK," Molly replied weakly. She took a deep breath and continued, "There were also faint ligature marks around both wrists and some light bruising on various parts of the body—I marked them all on the outline on the chart. There also was some minor internal bruising. It’s not extreme, it could be assault or just rough…um, sex..."

They both fell into an uncomfortable silence. Sophie had been gone over ten years, but the lurid story the evidence told made it seem as if Sherlock had only had sex with her a few days ago when he was, in fact, in bed with Molly.

Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat and said, “Is there something you want to ask me, Molly?”

Molly flushed but squared her shoulders and asked, “Did you love her?”

“Yes.”

“The bruises and the rest… Did you…hurt her?”

“Only when she wanted me to.”

Molly’s brown eyes went wide. _“Oh.”_

Sherlock sighed. He had an urge to start pacing but he was too tired to move. “Molly, it’s complicated for anyone on the outside of a relationship to look in and know what’s going on intimately between two people. Put it on paper and it looks very different from how it is in the bedroom. Even the first encounter between us, wouldn’t you say?”

That one can never _really_ know what there was between two people was a rather insightful and humble statement coming from Sherlock Holmes. Molly thought of the fight they'd had at the restaurant, of the way Sherlock pulled her arm and dragged her out. She had a few bruises herself after their weekend of sex and had felt strangely proud of the small, dark souvenirs. But, no, none of that would look good on paper. She shook her head and gave him a half-hearted smile of agreement.

"Do you wish she was still alive?" The question burst past her lips before she could stop it. Immediately she covered her mouth with her hands. "I'm sorry, that's a stupid question, of course you do."

Sherlock looked as sad as he had the night he came to the lab to ask her to help him fake his death. "It's an impossible question, Molly. I wish she hadn't died, but I don't wish I'd never met you. Would you wish your father alive again if it meant you would have never met me?" He looked rather afraid of her answer, but he held his eyes steady on hers. 

"Oh..." She bit her lip. "It _is_ an impossible question, a terrible question. I…I'm sorry." Her big eyes were glittering now and she looked small and frightened.

Sherlock smiled grimly, stepped closer and folded her in his arms. 


	30. Chapter 30

Mycroft was no fool. He knew Sherlock was going through stages of grief. But still, his little brother’s angry words had left a mark and he had no wish to interact with him for the time being. Let him run off and try to search England for Sophie alone. Sherlock should well know that just because they had him answering questions in an office didn't mean there weren't agents out searching for Sophie—agents who were much better trained for the job than a graduate student. Sherlock should also be intelligent and rational enough to know what it meant when a happy, stable person goes missing without their money or identification—that the outcome of the search was not likely to be a good one. Mycroft decided to follow his father's lead and let Sherlock come the inevitable, logical conclusions on his own. 

Late that afternoon some interesting intel came through from his network of informants: Sherlock was in police custody. He’d been questioned for hours and they were sparing no method to extract a confession. They'd already tried sleep and water deprivation to no avail but Sherlock persisted in a stony silence. Mycroft felt a flash of pride; a Holmes was not so easily broken. Not for the first time, he ruefully thought what an outstanding operative his brother would have made—with proper training, of course. His informant’s next bit of intel, however, propelled Mycroft to action. He notified the appropriate agent. “Collect him. Immediately.”

………………………………

Sherlock was burning up, his clothes smoldered with wisps of smoke, his throat ached. He looked down at his feet to see a cool, clear lake lapping at his toes. As he bent gratefully to drink, the water he cupped in his hands turned to sand. He heard a chuckle behind him and turned to see Sophie standing there with a smirk on her face. 

"Sophie—"

"It's just transport, right?" she said smiling. "All that matters is what's in here." Her fingertip touched his forehead and the heat drained from his body as if he'd been dowsed in cool water. He blinked and she was gone. _"Wait—!"_

Sherlock woke in a hospital bed in a long bunker-like room he’d never seen before, but he knew where he was. He sat up, ignoring the hollow pounding in his head and detached the nearly empty IV drip from his arm. Ice packs were tucked around his body, soaking his thin hospital gown condensation. He was wearing nothing else but if Mycroft thought that would stop him from leaving, he was an idiot. 

A rather inattentive nurse sat at the far end of the room watching the news on a wall-mounted television. The volume was turned low but he heard the reporter state that the main suspect in the disappearance of university student Sophie Gordon had managed to escape police custody.

“Main suspect? You’re the only suspect,” drawled Mycroft from the doorway causing the nurse to jump up and attempt check Sherlock's vital signs. He waved her off with a roll of his eyes and she scampered from the room. 

“All they had to do was check my story and they would have seen everything I told them was true," replied Sherlock, his voice dry and hoarse. "They're morons."

"I'm inclined to agree. Officers Barton and Jones have found themselves suspended without pay for unprofessional conduct."

Sherlock swung his eyes at Mycroft. "Regardless, I’m done trying to go through _proper_ channels. I’m going to find her myself.”

“And how will you do that, brother? For now you're still wanted, they’ll pick you up if you show your face in public.”

“So help me to not show my face.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow and stared at his haggard but determined brother. “I’ll call Bettina,” he sighed.

.…………………………………...

As the specialist known as Bettina worked on Sherlock, Mycroft filled him in on all they'd been able to discover about Sophie's disappearance. Sadly, there wasn't much to tell.

"There's no evidence of sex traffickers using that route to abduct women. No evidence anyone left the train while it was in route. No witnesses saw anything. It seems most everyone was distracted by human remains found on the tracks near the station."

"What?"

"That's why her train was delayed. They had to wait for the forensics team to investigate and remove them."

"And?"

Mycroft shrugged. "It appears to be a prank by some medical students. The remains were cadaver parts of an elderly woman taken from the labs at the university. Hands, I believe. There was some sort of taunt aimed at a rival school's rowing club attached to them. There was no foul play involved other than incredibly poor taste. Unfortunately, it's an odd occurrence with which you could still be connected. You had access to those parts."

Sherlock snorted. "Yes, but I have no interest in rowing clubs." 

A small smile flashed across Mycroft's face and vanished. "Can you think of anyone who would have any motive for kidnapping her, Sherlock?"

He shook his head slowly then his eyes grew wide. "The rugby players. They found out somehow about her involvement in uncovering their drug ring. It was them. It had to be." Sherlock shuddered at the unpleasant thought of Sophie held hostage by those cruel thugs and immediately imagined cutting their brake lines, setting fire to their homes and all manor of other vengeful acts.

Mycroft shook his head. "Two of them are in custody as you well know."

"And the others?"

"So grateful not to be in custody I doubt they'd go looking for trouble. Trust me, that's a dead end."

Sherlock scowled. "I can't think of anything else. She was liked, she was...normal. You would no doubt describe her as ordinary. In fact you're the closest thing she had to an enemy—"

Mycroft suddenly looked very tired. "Don't start that again, Sherlock. I'm trying to help."

Sherlock sighed and fixed his eyes to the far corner of the room. "I know." He swung his eyes back to Mycroft. " _I know,"_ he said softly, meaningfully and his brother saw that the direness of the situation hadn't escaped Sherlock after all. "But I have to find her no matter what the outcome. I have to know what happened."

"I know," echoed Mycroft.

………………………………

A blond, bearded Sherlock surveyed the train station resisting the urge to scratch at the prosthetic makeup that the agent Bettina had skillfully applied. He was dressed like a European tourist with hiking boots and a backpack and a passport to match. He had to admit he didn't really know where to start. He longed for a problem he could solve in his lab.  _My real fortress of solitude,_ he thought with a sad smile.

He interviewed all the station workers again but no one remembered anything new. He studied every tile of the station floor, inspected the gravel around the tracks and was nearly kicked off the premises after admitting himself to the women's toilet for a look around. He found a bench with a good view of the station and sat and observed people coming and going. 

Soon a raggedy man who by the looks and smell of him was a homeless person sat at the far end of the bench. Sherlock was about to move on when a new thought occurred to him. He turned to the homeless man.

"Excuse me, do you come here everyday?"

The homeless man cast a wary look at Sherlock. "Who wants to know?"

Sherlock blinked. "I do. I'm looking for someone." 

"That so?" The man glanced around nervously.

"Yes, a young woman came through here a few days ago and she hasn't been seen since."

"That one that's been in the news? The pretty girl with the blond hair?"

"Yes."

The man shrugged. "Maybe she don't want to be found." 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "And maybe you shouldn't play games and tell me if you know anything or not."

The man scowled. "Who the bloody hell are you, anyway? I don't have to answer to you." He stood up and walked away.

Sherlock sighed and watched him go. Clearly he still had a lot to learn about interviewing potential witnesses. Undeterred and unsure what else to do, he came back to the station day after day. Late at night when the lab was empty, he would test the "evidence" he'd found during the day: cigarette ash, chewed gum, lipstick on paper cups. He read books on forensic science and made copious notes on his findings. He knew none of it had anything to do with Sophie, but it was a comfort to be doing something. He steadfastly ignored a voice in the back of his head that whispered he was, in fact, going mad. He lived on coffee and almost no sleep. The absence of Sophie was a dull ache he couldn't forget even for a moment; the question of where she was a constant pounding in his brain. The rare nights that he went back to his flat, he would bury himself in bedsheets that still smelled of her and the ache would grow into a torturous emptiness. 

One day as he sat in his customary place at the station, the homeless man he'd previously scared off returned and sat at the end of the bench again. He stole a few glances at Sherlock. He seemed to be struggling with some impulse. Sherlock waited and said nothing.

"I know who you are," said the man finally, glancing up at the grown out black roots of Sherlock's hair. "You're the boyfriend. The one they're looking for."

Sherlock looked at him with cold eyes. "So? Are you planning to turn me in?"

The man looked ready to run, but said, "No. I don't reckon you'd be here everyday poking around and waiting and looking suspicious-like at everyone if you'd done it." He hesitated then added, "You look lost yourself."

Sherlock grimaced and looked away.

"Look," the man continued. "I didn't see nothing when she disappeared, but maybe someone else did. Come with me and I'll take you to some others who might know."

Sherlock studied the man and wondered if he was leading him somewhere to rob him. He found he really didn't care, he was tired of sitting and waiting. He inclined his head and said, "After you."

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how slowly the chapters are coming. Life is busy right now and these chapters were the least planned out in my head. I know how the story will end and even have much of the very end written and ready to go once I slog my way through this section. Thanks for hanging in there.

Sherlock followed the man outside the station, down an alley and over three blocks. There, under an overpass, was a small encampment of homeless persons. It was growing dark and several people were gathered around a fire glowing inside a barrel. 

"I'm James, by the way," said the man as he lead Sherlock toward the barrel. Sherlock replied with a curt nod.

As he and the James approached, something odd caught Sherlock's eye. Against one of the stone walls supporting the overpass there appeared to be a makeshift shrine. As he drew closer to the lit candles and wilted wildflowers, his breath caught in his throat, his eyes widened in shock. Pasted to the wall was one of the "missing" leaflets with Sophie's face on it. Next to that were several drawings of her and a yellowing newspaper clipping showing Sophie's smiling face.

"Don't touch it," he heard a shrill voice cry. Sherlock turned to see an old woman hurrying toward him.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, pointing at the shrine.

"She was my friend," she answered defensively, "I knew her. Tell him James."

Before the man could answer Sherlock demanded, "How?"

"Don't look so surprised," sniffed the woman. "She taught me to draw down at the shelter. Now I sell my artwork in the park instead of begging for handouts. I do real good." She smiled proudly.

Sherlock looked around at the encampment and muttered, "I can see that."

"Cheeky," she muttered, frowning. "You're the boyfriend, aren't you? James said he was bringing you. You don't have to be rude, we're trying to help."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. "Do you know something? Did you see anything?" 

"Well, first off, Mr. Holmes—yes, I know who you are—my name is Doris. Secondly, like I said, I work the park not the train station. We'll go ask Fuzzy, that's his territory."

"This way, Mr. Holmes, but be warned, he's not the helpful sort," James said in a low voice.

On the edge of the encampment they found a man with frizzy gray hair that looked remarkably like goose down had been glued to his scalp. He was digging through a torn and dingy backpack and muttering curses under his breath."What do you lot want?" he grumbled without looking up.

"He's here about the girl," James said simply.

"So. What's it got to do wif me?" he asked with a sour expression.

"Percival Gibb you listen to him and answer his questions," Doris scolded.

"I told you not to call me that," he growled. "Besides, I told you nosy birds a hundred times, I didn't see nothing," he scowled, glaring at the woman.

Sherlock ignored their exchange and asked, "What do you do at the station? Panhandle?" 

Doris scoffed. "He's a _thief_. A pickpocket."

"And what did you pick the day Sophie went missing? Did you see anything unusual?"

"Why should I talk to you?" Fuzzy asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled out some cash and waved it at him. The man looked at it greedily and licked his lips. 

"You were saying? Your pick?"

Fuzzy tore his eyes from the money and looked back at Sherlock. "Nothing! I missed out on a big score, though."

"What was that?"

"Musical instruments. There was a big trunk on the back dock behind the train, where the passengers ain't supposed to go. There it was, sitting there and I could'a had it but some bloke came 'round the corner just as I was about to wheel it away."

"What did he look like?"

The man shrugged. "I dunno, I saw him out of the corner of my eye and I turned around quick-like. Could'a been the conductor."

"How did you know what was in the trunk?"

"'Cause it said so, didn't it? Big silver trunk with a big label said, 'Fragile, musical instruments' and some kind of symbol."

"A symbol? What did it look like?"

The man's brow furrowed in thought. He knelt in the dirt and started to draw but shook his head. "I can't remember. It was like a nuclear symbol maybe. Must have been the band logo or something."

"And other than that, there was nothing unusual about the day?"

"Only if you don't count the body parts on the track. Stupid spoiled university students and their pranks," Fuzzy spat.

"At least they weren't pulling one on us for once," Doris murmured in agreement.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and handed Fuzzy the cash. 

…………………………………………...

 

"I need some intel on a band. They may have a nuclear symbol as a logo. They were traveling through the station at the same time Sophie was."

"Sherlock, don't you think this is far fetched?" sighed Mycroft.

The only reply was the sound of Sherlock breathing.

"Fine, brother. I'll see what I can do."

The next day Sherlock called him from a pay phone in the station.

Mycroft sounded tired. "There was a band called McGuffin traveling on the train the same day as Sophie. They disembarked in London. The agents already interviewed them weeks ago and found them rather uncooperative, but there's nothing to indicate they would have had anything to do with her disappearance. They're very wary of police, the lead singer has been arrested several times on drug charges. If you try to question them they'll likely be highly suspicious of your motive."

"Let me worry about that."

"Sherlock, you've done all you can. We all have. As much as I hate to admit it, sometimes crimes aren't solvable."

"No. You're just giving up."

"Sherlock…" he faltered. "I'm afraid for you. Keep this up and it may...destroy you."

"Don't be dramatic, Mycroft," he replied coldly but there was an ever-so-slight tremble in his voice.

"You'll worry Mummy so—"

"No, I won't. You've always taken it upon yourself to be my keeper and withhold my actions from our mother and father. I don't think you'll deviate from that now. I'll wager they still think I'm at university hunkered down in a lab somewhere—"

"Which is exactly where you should be," said Mycroft firmly. When this was met with resentful silence he sighed and quietly added, "Sherlock, I can do no more after this. You're on your own."

Sherlock blinked and swallowed in surprise. "Very well then. I shan't bother you again." He hung up the phone shaken by an unfamiliar feeling—fear.


	32. Chapter 32

The noise was deafening, the smell of sweat and alcohol and cigarettes overwhelming in the humid sea of overheated bodies crashing into one another in front of the stage. _Why are you here? What good can this possibly do?_ To Sherlock's annoyance the voice of reason in his head had begun to sound exactly like Mycroft. He muted the voice, narrowed his eyes and continued to play his part. Needing to focus, he didn't dwell on the small pleasure, the tiny bit of relief he felt at hurling himself at the other dancers; hurting and being hurt. He watched, chest heaving and sweaty as the singer above them growled a final lyric and stepped off the edge of the stage onto the waiting hands of the crowd. As he descended his head landed across the bridge of Sherlock's nose with a crunch and they both hit the floor curled in pain.

The music stopped and hands, Sherlock couldn't see whose through the sweat and blood in his eyes, were helping him off the floor. When he could see again he found himself in a dimly lit hall backstage with the singer.

"Fucking hell! You mother fucking piece of shit wanker," spat the man holding his head. He turned to glare at Sherlock but stopped short at the sight of the copious amount of blood covering Sherlock's face and shirt and still seeping from his nose. " _Christ, mate._ I've seen worse, but Jesus...talk about being in the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time..."

"Yeah," muttered Sherlock and winced. "Sorry about that…my first time." This essentially was true, it was the first time he'd entered the pit but Sherlock had very carefully chosen where to stand and when. He'd been following the band McGuffin from club to club for three weeks until he knew everyone on stage and behind it. The music was an assault to his senses but he memorized every song. Even the dancing was violent, bodies slamming against bodies under the blare of the frantic music. Sherlock had stayed well away from the tangled mass until tonight.

If he'd been forced to answer his voice of reason he would have had to admit he had no idea what he was doing, but least he was doing _something._ At least he was busy and his mind was occupied. Deep down he also felt the familiar excitement of playing detective, of being someone else for a while. His mind was fixated on Fuzzy's description of that trunk sitting alone at the train station. He knew exactly what those trunks looked like: silver with metal reinforcements on the corners and edges. They could be very large—large enough to hold a person. His suspicion made no sense and there was no evidence whatsoever to lead him to these men. It was too complicated to be plausible, but he had no other leads to follow.

Mycroft had been right about the band, it was impossible to get near them. Even their two roadies and their squat, truck-sized manager made sure everyone kept their distance. Sherlock needed to blend in and it had to look effortless lest he be outed as a poseur. He visited several second-hand shops before he found the right things to wear. Though many of the club goers wore bizarre and sometimes alarming costumes and hairstyles, he went for a simpler look. He had the requisite heavy black boots, worn and scuffed; black pants torn in a few places; and a tight, faded white t-shirt, sleeves removed, with some offensive anarchist statement on the front. He chose not to overdo the hardware and settled on a thick black belt with three rows of spiked studs. The first time he wore it he briefly wondered what Sophie would think of such an outfit and smiled. He left his hair alone so he wouldn't look like he was trying too hard. His attitude of disinterested ease, however, was no effort at all.

And so, he'd blended in as best he could and observed and waited until he knew what to do. Always near the end of the show, after one particular song, the lead singer would hurl himself onto the waiting hands of the crowd. Tonight when he did so, Sherlock had been ready and had positioned himself perfectly, timed it perfectly. 

The singer shook his head and snorted. "Well, you'll always remember your first. You look like you need a drink."

Sherlock nodded and looked at the blood on his hands. "Yeah. Sorry, again," he said and turned toward the door leading back to the bar. 

"Wait, man, come on back where it's quiet. You can wash up—it's not much cleaner than the toilets out front but you won't have to wait in a que."

For a moment Sherlock mused how someone who was rather ordinarily accommodating could create such angry music that inspired dancing that was more like fighting. Maybe he should ask him about the trunk and about Sophie now. Just as he opened his mouth to speak the thick-set and rather angry manager rounded the corner.

"What the fuck, Liam, you need to get back out there—" He stopped short, eyeing Sherlock up and down. "Oi, do I know you?" 

"No, I'm just a fan."

"Or a copper?"

"Yeah. I'm a cop." Sherlock rolled his eyes then affected the bored look which always came so easily to him, even with a bloodied nose. 

"Yeah, well no _fans,_ " he sneered the word, "admitted back stage." 

"Fuck off, Mick. He's with me."

"Really, Liam ?" he asked incredulously. "After what happened last time—"

"I just want to clean up my bloody fucking nose and…maybe...talk about music. That's all," interrupted a petulant Sherlock.

"Talk about music, eh?" scoffed the manager. "Of fucking course you do. Wanna join the band probably. And what do you play?" he asked, rolling his eyes.

"Violin."

At that Liam howled laughing. "See, he plays violin, Mick. No worries. We _need_ a violinist. We're going to discuss our music, now. Come on, fanboy."

They retreated to the sound of the manager's cursing.

……………………………………………..

Sherlock cleaned up in the dingy toilet off the green room. The bleeding had finally stopped but his nose was swollen and purple against his pale face. He couldn't do much about the blood on his shirt but he doubted anyone would care. When he stepped back into the small green room it was full of people resembling a strange flock of black and brightly colored birds—the rest of the band and their girlfriends or groupies were all gathered and the air was thick with smoke.

Liam spotted him and said with a shrug, "So much for quiet."

"Is the show over?" Sherlock asked, feigning disappointment.

"Didn't you hear? The singer was taken off to A&E with a concussion," said Liam with a wink and handed him a beer. "In a way I owe you one. Mick's been driving us like work horses and we needed a break."

"Cheers to that," agreed the drummer over the din in the room.

Sherlock's mouth quirked into a small smile while he stuck the beer bottle under his arm and shook a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his pocket and lit it. He leaned against the wall and smoked and sipped his beer slowly while deducing everyone in the room. He casually watched as the singer leaned forward and inhaled a line of cocaine from a mirror on the table. A spliff was being passed around the room adding its thick sweet scent to the cigarette smoke. Sherlock took it when it was handed to him and inhaled deeply, fighting the urge to cough as he passed it along. He felt a buzzing sensation in his head and, ever the scientist, catalogued his body's reactions to the drug for future reference. Suddenly a glassy-eyed Liam was at his side. 

"Here, fanboy," he said. "Try this and you'll forget all about your nose. You'll fucking forget you ever had a nose." He laughed and handed Sherlock a small square of paper.

Sherlock looked at the paper in his hand. A vaguely familiar drawing of a grinning cat looked back at him. _Ah, lysergic acid diethylamide, usually administered by putting under the tongue. Not addictive but can cause hallucinations and paranoia._ He looked at the singer who was watching him with a curious expression.  _This should be interesting,_  Sherlock thought and opened his mouth and popped it in.

 


	33. Chapter 33

Liam clapped Sherlock on the shoulder and staggered away to join the rest of the black-garbed, spiky-haired crowd. Sherlock pulled the damp square of paper out of his mouth and let it fall to the floor. He looked around and was pleased to see no one was paying any attention to him. He leaned against the wall and observed the black-clad, spike and chain bedecked people coming and going. Presently there came a strange feeling in his brain like a shimmer, the way oil shimmers in a hot pan, but then it was gone and he felt the same as he had before.  _That wasn't so bad._  He smiled a little, confident he could handle whatever might come.

Looking across the room Sherlock saw one of the roadies wedged on a grungy sofa and observed that he didn't quite fit with the rest of the group. True he was wearing black like everyone else, but his naturally colored ginger hair was short and curly and his face was covered in freckles. He looked quite young, in his late teens perhaps, and wary of the others in the room. As soon as a spot next to him was open, Sherlock made his way over and squeezed in beside him.

"Quite a gathering, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, indicating the crowded room.

"Wha?" he replied, looking startled that anyone was paying attention to him. "About average, I'd say." He gulped his beer.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed lightly then cut his eyes at him. "Big responsibility you have."

"What is?" the boy asked and turned to look at Sherlock. 

Sherlock was momentarily distracted by the sight of the boy's eyes changing from green to purple and back to green. "Taking care of things, packing the equipment and all that..." Sherlock trailed off as he noticed the shifting dimensions of the room. 

"Yeah, I guess," the boy muttered.

 _Focus, Sherlock._ "A few months ago when you traveled to the London gig with the group, did you meet anyone? A young, blond, female college student traveling alone?"

"What? I weren't on any train to London…" he replied, frowning.  

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "They left you behind?"

"No, no. Me and Stu, we always drive the equipment in a truck even if the others take the train. He don't trust the train companies with it."

Sherlock didn't bother trying to hide his shock and disappointment. "What? Never?"

"No, never." The boy's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why're you asking so many questions?" he demanded as he rose from the sofa. 

"No reason," Sherlock replied with a forced shrug of disinterest and watched him skulk away.

 _How could I, of all people, be so stupid?_  A _ll this was for nothing. Nothing._ He looked at the gathered crowd and saw they were moving very slowly as if they were all under water. He suddenly felt as if he'd melted into and become one with the dingy fabric of the sofa and could not find the initiative to move himself. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back and thought of Sophie. The pain of missing her was palpable. Having a lead to follow had helped distract him from it, now he didn't even have that. He didn't know what to do next. He felt helpless. For the first time the thought, _I can't save her, she's dead,_ came to his mind. He shuddered and quickly deleted it. 

Moments later he felt fingers slide gently through his hair while a weight settled on his lap. Soft lips met his. _Sophie._ His hands came up to bring her closer. As the kiss deepened and a tongue slid into his mouth alarm bells sounded in his brain. This wasn't Sophie, it didn't smell or taste like her. He opened his eyes wide and looked into a black mask of makeup around the cold blue eyes of a young woman. Tall, gravity-defying spikes of pink hair rose above her head and her black painted lips curled into a smirk. 

"No," he said pushing her away and trying to ignore the fresh ache of disappointment he felt in discovering she was not Sophie.

"S'alright," she shrugged, rising from his lap. "Don't get tetchy. I just wanted to see how it would look on those lips of yours." Her eyes traveled down to his mouth before she winked and sauntered away. 

Sherlock blinked in confusion. "What?" He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and saw a smear of black lipstick. As he watched, the smear began to crawl across his hand and he gasped, quickly wiping it away. Heart racing he lurched from the sofa and fought his way through the throng and out into the hall. At its end he found an exit door that opened onto a dark alley. The air outside was cold and he gulped deep breaths to try to calm down. He definitely was feeling less than OK but was still determined to control it.

He found a dark spot behind some crates and slid down the wall to sit with his chin on his knees. It was good to be where it was quiet and dark and away from all those people. Now he had to try to think. He was stepping into his mind palace when something flickered past his face like a tiny, glowing bit of cigarette ash. He looked up but there were no windows above him and no one else in the alley. There was another spark and another until there were too many to count. Suddenly he knew, quite assuredly, that those were his thoughts. The hundreds of ideas and theories spinning at lighting speed in his brain were now floating around him, suspended like dust motes in a sunbeam. He gazed at them, fascinated. He reached out to touch one and he could see the idea in infinite detail in a way he'd never been able to before. They were beautiful, intelligent, insightful. It all seemed so obvious now. _I really am a genius,_ he thought. Another thought floated by and he studied it, turned it this way and that.  _Why didn't I follow this lead?_ He was so engrossed in examining the thoughts he lost all sense of time—a week may have passed or maybe a year. 

Suddenly he saw a light shining from above and could not look away. It was warmth and comfort and love shining down on him. He needed that light. He climbed and climbed, through trees and over rocks, across kilometers of land, never questioning how he'd gone from an alley to a forest. He finally neared the source of the illumination. It was Sophie, standing among the tress naked and glowing as if lit from within. A crown of flowers was perched on her head.

"Sophie? You're here? Were you in the trunk?" he asked stupidly. He reached for her but the distance between them warped and stretched longer.

"Shhh. I've been right here," she said soothingly and slid her cool fingers across his brow and through his hair.

"No," he shook his head. "You are here," he said putting her hand over his heart. "I miss you."

She smiled and reached up to kiss him. He was flooded with blissful calm. _She must be here, I can feel her,_ he thought as her arms encircled his neck. He closed his eyes against the fierce glow she was emitting and when he opened them again he found it was the late morning sun that blinded him. He lay still on his back feeling completely leveled by grief and loss and trying to understand where he was. He slowly realized he was sprawled on a gravelly rooftop. He could hear the sound of traffic moving below. One foot was propped on the ledge of the building, its shoe was missing and he blinked uncomprehendingly at his sock. Rising unsteadily, he looked over the edge of the building to see his shoe, far below on the sidewalk.

This should have been a warning that even a great mind like his could not hope to keep control when addled with chemical substances. Instead, Sherlock ignored the danger and focused on the opportunity. He couldn't remember the ideas he'd had the night before, only the brilliance, the control and surety he'd felt when studying them, the joy of seeing Sophie even if she was only a hallucination. _I am a brilliant chemist after all. I can make something that will help me think more efficiently,_ he imagined with a gleam in his eyes. He headed for the lab. 

 


	34. Chapter 34

The university campus was teaming with students when Sherlock arrived and he realized it was a weekday. This did not suit his plans. Nor did the costume he was wearing. He altered course and headed to his flat to change back into himself and wait for nightfall.

Late that evening he slipped along the building's shadows toward the Chemistry building. It was a Friday night and he knew from experience the class buildings were sure to be deserted—he had often relished that time to work in peace. He unlocked the door to the lab and, just as he'd expected, it was empty. He looked around and spared himself a moment of sentiment; this would be the last time he would ever come here. It had long been his refuge, more like home than home, but what he was about to do was illegal and it wouldn't take a genius to figure out who was responsible. He could never come back.

He gathered beakers and other supplies and carefully packed them in a bag. Opening the supply closet, he took another furtive look around then pulled out his key for the restricted cabinet within. As an upper level student and prodigy he'd been given the privilege of unlimited access to the potentially dangerous drugs in the locked cupboard. Studying the labels, he selected what he needed and relocked the cabinet. On the way out of the building he met no one in the corridors and the surrounding campus was empty and quiet.

There was a sharp chill in the air and the steam from his breath billowed out before him as he walked home. Nearing his flat he looked up in time to see a flicker in his window above and he knew: Mycroft's agents were waiting for him. _It seems big brother has lost his patience with me._ His second refuge lost, Sherlock grimaced and veered down an alley, taking twists and turns that he knew would lose whatever agent might be following him. Ignoring the strap of the heavy bag that dug painfully into his shoulder, he dodged down narrow lanes and even through the kitchen of a restaurant until he was sure all was clear. At first he didn't know where he could go to hide, then an idea took shape that made his stomach twist painfully. There was a dorm that had an empty top floor—Sophie's dorm. One of the older buildings on campus, it had been under renovation when funding dried up and hadn't been finished. One night while waiting for Sophie to return to her room he'd gone exploring and found it; empty room after empty room with ancient, crumbling plaster and sheets of plastic hanging everywhere.

Easily picking the lock, Sherlock slid unnoticed into the dormitory and headed straight to the third floor, purposely avoiding going past Sophie's room. On the top floor all was as quiet and empty as he remembered it. He chose the room directly over Sophie's, set up his make-shift lab and got to work. The little bunsen burners lit the room with an eery glow. The window was opened a crack to ventilate the room and mask the smell. He worked quickly and silently and, as he was wont to do when focused on a problem, he completely lost track of time. When at last he finished, he didn't know if he'd been working hours or days.

He blinked wearily at the dirty window and saw that it was night. No sound came from the grounds below and he met no one in the halls as he crept downstairs. A gleam in the hall stopped him in his tracks: Christmas decorations. A bulletin board in the hall was covered with glittery tinsel and stars and a big calendar. Each day had been crossed off leading up to the holiday break which had just begun. It would be Christmas in three weeks and the students were gone home. _Christmas,_ he thought and the image of his smiling, doting parents came to mind. _Mycroft will have to tell them._

He moved on down the hall and stopped again. He stood for a moment and stared at Sophie's door. Tokens of remembrance and notes had been taped to the door by friends and well-wishers. He picked the lock and stepped over the flowers and candles on the floor in front of the threshold. Inside he found her things had been cleared leaving the room looking as empty and gray as he felt. He realized he had nothing of hers. The police had taken any evidence of her existence from his apartment and now there was nothing here. 

He lay down on her bed and buried his face in her mattress but no scent of her lingered there. Turning over to stare at the ceiling, he thought of the night he'd come there, waiting for her and her wrath. He'd been so miserable and she'd been so angry with him, but instead of making him go she'd tried to understand. She'd adapted to him, made it easy for him, gave him more than he could ever give her. He could remember every detail of her standing naked before him and how it made him feel. The memory of their first time together was so sharp and vivid it was painful.

Never having held anyone before he hadn't known one's arms could ache from being empty. Having always felt happy in his solitude he hadn't known he could feel cleaved in two by the loss of someone. Hot tears pricked at his eyes, but he blinked them away and rolled up his sleeve. He tied the tourniquet tight over his bicep until the veins bulged in his pale arm. The needle stung slightly, the liquid inside slid cooly in and he felt the effects instantly. His eyes closed and this time there were no thought-sparks floating around him, no visions of Sophie. This time there was nothing but oblivion and peace. Despite his original intentions, he found he was fine with this result, too.

……………………………………….

The days that followed were strange and only half-remembered. With no residents in the building, Sherlock didn't need to move on in a hurry. He used the time to play lab rat to the different drug formulas he'd concocted—nothing too powerful—and tweaking them to get them right. If he got hungry he broke into rooms and pilfered left-behind biscuits and crisps. He also borrowed blankets from various rooms and took them to Sophie's where he slept. The days and nights ran together but he marked them on the calendar in the hall to keep track. His rational voice, Mycroft's voice, told him that this was dangerous and accomplishing nothing. He ignored it. It was accomplishing the relief of pain and that was enough for the moment. He would save thinking for tomorrow or next week. Right then, he felt a bliss and a relief of  _self._  He'd rather be anyone other than Sherlock Holmes. He saved what he was sure was his best formula for Christmas Eve. He stood in the dark and looked out on the empty quad before crawling into a nest of blankets and pillows on Sophie's bed. Tomorrow he would leave, tonight he would float on a wave of nothingness.  

Sherlock clutched protectively at the collection of vials in his pockets as he left the dorm the next day. All evidence of his lab had been put in the dumpster, the blankets and pillows he'd borrowed were dumped in the basement laundry room. He left no sign of himself in Sophie's room. It was if neither of the them had ever existed. Out on the street the sun pricked his eyes. He needed to get himself together. It was time to start thinking again. At least some of the time. 

He only allowed himself to use after the sun went down to get him through the dark, lonely night. During the day he could be found at the train station where he watched the trains come and go, the people come and go. Sometimes he deduced something interesting about a passing stranger and followed them to see if he was right. It did nothing to help find Sophie, but it passed the time. He'd followed all sorts of people to all kinds of places—some places he shouldn't be. He'd been beaten up twice, nearly shot once. But he now knew new and interesting things about people and parts of the city and he'd always liked knowing things.

Most nights were spent at the homeless camp curled up on a piece of cardboard, pale eyes staring at nothing. James and Doris would cluck worriedly over him, wrapping him in blankets, trying to get him to eat, forcing water down his throat. They tried to convince him to stop, Doris even took down Sophie's shrine in case it helped him to forget. Sherlock replaced it with one of his own. The concrete wall where her picture had been was now covered with half-written theories—some underlined, some circled. Some circled words were connected by lines to other circled words but none of it made any sense, at least not to anyone who wasn't Sherlock. It was like the web of a drunk spider creeping across the gray wall.

 …………………………….

One afternoon while sitting in the station he watched as a man went from the ticket holder to the cafe to any station employee he could find. He showed each of them a photo and asked them questions. They all shook their heads. Fuzzy was working the station that day. Sherlock saw him stiffen as the man approached him. He barely glanced at the photo before shaking his head with a sneer and telling the man to "piss off."

The man looked as if he was about to give up when his eyes met Sherlock's. He walked over and with a dubious look, flashed a badge and ID card. Sherlock was just able to catch the surname "Lestrade."

"Have you seen this bloke?" Lestrade asked in a tone that said he expected Sherlock to say "no."

Sherlock studied the photo briefly then flicked his eyes away. "Why are you looking for him?" he asked as if he didn't really care to hear the answer.

"So you have seen him?" 

"I didn't say that," Sherlock replied dryly. 

Lestrade sighed in frustration. "He's a suspect in a murder investigation and— You know what? Nevermind." He turned to go and Sherlock heard him mutter, "Why am I discussing a case with a bum?"

Sherlock was taken aback. Dignity he assumed he'd lost long ago reared it's head. _Bum?_ People used to call him brilliant—arsehole as well, but always brilliant. He looked down at the filthy pants he'd been wearing for days and the dirt under his fingernails. "He's Albanian," he blurted desperately at Lestrade's retreating figure.

Lestrade paused and turned to look back at him. "How do you know that?"

"From the military patch on his coat and the tattoo on his hand. How did you not know that?"

Lestrade squinted at the grainy photo. "I can barely see his bloody coat and tattoo. We only have this video still of him."

"He's a hit man for the mafia."

"Mafia?" The detective's eyes widened. "How—? Look, are you making this up?"

Sherlock fixed him with a scathing look and spoke with his nearly forgotten tone of dismissive assurance, "I'm not making it up, Detective Lestrade, but believe what you like. You can always go back to canvassing the neighborhood while your fellow detectives snicker at you behind your back. Started off as a traffic cop didn't you? Bit late to the detective game. They think you're a plonker and you've got a lot to prove. Am I right?" 

At first shocked, Lestrade's eyes hardened to anger then swung away as his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Yeah, something like that."

"I suggest you check out Cafe Kalinka. They're frequent customers. They're the only customers. It's...a dangerous place." Sherlock's mind flashed back to the night he'd mindlessly strolled into said establishment on the tail of a particularly interesting subject of deduction. He'd barely made it out alive. 

"You're probably mental," said Lestrade, shaking his head. "I have no reason to believe you, but for some reason I do."

"It's called desperation," Sherlock replied with a smirk.

………………………………….

A week later Sherlock was sitting in his usual spot when someone blocked his view. It was Detective Lestrade.

"You were right. It was bigger than I thought—mafia. They pulled the case and gave it to a higher level team," he said bitterly. "But they don't snicker anymore," he smirked and handed Sherlock a hot coffee and some packets of sugar. "By the way, what's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"What? Really?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"Oh, sorry." He rocked on his heels and looked around the station nervously for a moment. Sherlock said nothing and sipped his coffee. Finally Lestrade leaned forward and muttered, "Um, I've got another one…" He pulled out a photograph.

Sherlock's mouth quirked almost into a smile.

After that Lestrade became a regular at the train station. He bought Sherlock coffee and pastries. They talked about the cases or detective work in general. Sherlock learned some things to add to his knowledge of forensics and Lestrade was given the benefit of picking a brain that could see connections and solutions that no one else could. It didn't occur to Sherlock that it was odd for him to be working with a police officer during the day while spending his evenings in a haze of drugs. It never occurred to him to mention Sophie's case. She had begun to seem like a distant dream. When she began to feel real again, the drugs were there to alter reality. Once, Lestrade got up enough nerve to ask Sherlock if he needed any help, saying that he would like to do something for him.

"You don't have to repay me," Sherlock said coldly and shifted uncomfortably.

"It's not that. It just seems very odd for someone like you, someone with your talents, to be sitting in a train station every day watching people go by…"

"I have no where else to be," Sherlock said with a finality that silenced Lestrade, though he didn't plan to let it drop entirely.   

……………………………………………..

Sherlock hadn't been paying attention when he realized his homemade supply had run out. One night he pulled out a vial and found it empty. Patting his pockets desperately he realized it was the last one. _It's OK,_ he thought. _I don't need them._  But there was a tremor in his hands, now. Hands that were once called clever, hands that once held and caressed  _her._ And there was a burning want in his gut, a need for something and it wasn't Sophie anymore. He shivered as sweat beaded his forehead and Doris and James implored him to drink broth they'd warmed for him.

Fuzzy watched from the shadows at the edge of camp and waited until Sherlock's caretakers had retired for the evening. "You need something mate?" he said quietly as he approached.

Sherlock looked at him with dull eyes. "I thought you were a thief not a drug dealer, _mate,_ " he mocked feebly.

"I'm not, but I know people." He glanced over his shoulder. "Gimme your watch and I'll get you some."

Sherlock had become so thin the watch easily slid from his wrist as he handed it over. The fact that his parents had given it to him for graduation meant little at the moment. Anyway, he didn't do sentiment. Not anymore. He expected never to see Fuzzy again, but two hours later he emerged from the darkness with a tiny packet of beige powder. Sherlock blinked in surprise. 

"Not too much now," Fuzzy said, suddenly nervous. "You know, right?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Yes. I know," he said quietly, looking at the tiny bag in his shaking hand.

The scruffy man turned and disappeared into the darkness leaving Sherlock to make the necessary preparations. _Don't Sherlock, you cannot undo this once done,_ his brother's voice echoed in his brain. _It doesn't matter. I am broken_. He closed his eyes a moment then plunged the needle in his arm.

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

Sherlock couldn't remember much of what occurred after his last hit. He knew there was vomiting and a feeling like a knife had been stuck in his gut. He recalled being forced to drink water. He vaguely recalled people discussing calling for an ambulance, but when he came to he was still curled under the bridge with a pile of blankets on top of him so heavy he could barely move. It was dark out and it was cold, really cold. He saw members of the homeless camp packing things and heading away from the bridge.

James and Doris came over and started taking his blankets and folding them and putting them into bags. He made a weak protest as the chill night air hit him.

"Hush," said Doris. "The night manager at the station lets us sleep there when it's bitter cold out. We need to get going. Can you stand?"

James helped him up and between the two of them, they managed to get Sherlock to the warm station and made him a nest in a corner away from everyone else. The cafe workers generously gave them all hot coffee before closing up for the night. The liquid burned all the way down to his stomach but it roused him out of his mental fog and thawed the chill within. The station lights had been left on and he watched as the homeless hunkered down for the night and fell asleep. He fished out a rumpled cigarette and smoked it slowly, watching the smoke curl up from it in blue-gray puffs. He stared across the station at the spot on the floor where he'd last seen Sophie, where he'd last held and kissed her and felt her warmth and love. 

His cigarette done, he looked at the lighter in his hand. He looked at the sleeping people spread around the station. His hand went to his pocket and pulled out the little bag of beige powder, a spoon and a syringe. For the first time it occurred to him that he might not survive this. He was painfully thin and unwell, and he knew he had no one to blame but himself. He didn't care what happened as long as he might see Sophie once more. The drugs hit his blood stream and a wave of nausea had him retching bile on the floor. He fell forward limply, his cheek resting on the cool tiles when he got his wish; Sophie was standing in the station, her bag on her shoulder, looking happy and excited for her adventure in France. She was surrounded by fireflies.

_Sophie..._

The fireflies danced and swirled and made him dizzy. He blinked and they were still. They were not fireflies but the overhead lights reflected on a pair of impossibly shiny black shoes inches from his nose.

"Fuck off, Mycroft." He mumbled without looking up.

"Don't you think it's time to come home, Sherlock?" said a voice very high above him.

“I am home.”

_"No...”_

"Go away."

"You've done everything you can for Sophie. If you keep this up it will kill you."

"I don't care."

"I do,” Mycroft said sadly.

Thick, strong hands—not Mycroft’s—reached down and picked him up. He fought and spit and kicked and cursed them. James and Doris looked on with stricken faces. As he was forced into a shiny black car he looked back at the station windows glowing warmly in the cold night and felt like something was being ripped out of him.

The next week at the rehab facility was a new kind of hell. He'd never felt so sick in his life. He was feverish and soiled himself more than once. Sleep was nearly impossible with the constant feeling that his hair was crawling around on his head. His muscles twitched and jerked involuntarily, his nose wouldn't stop running and he drooled all over his pillow when he was able to sleep. The hunger for drugs was constant, making him angry and sometimes violent. Or worse, making him beg and plead for relief.

On the first day that he felt well enough to get out of bed, he limped to the toilet and looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was long and matted, deep shadows under his eyes made him look ghoulish. He showered for what felt like days in the hottest water he could tolerate and scrubbed himself until his skin was raw. Not allowed to have sharp objects, he grudgingly asked a facility employee to cut his hair. His shaking hands would have done a rubbish job of it anyway.

“Are you sure?” she asked with a kind smile.

“Yes,” he said and watched it fall and fall to the floor, piling up in dark drifts. Once she had cut it as short as she could, she pulled out the clippers and shaved the rest of it as he’d requested. He tried not to enjoy the feel of her warm fingers on his neck. He didn’t need human touch anymore. He’d make sure of that.

……………………………………

Of course, Mycroft had chosen the best of rehab centers. It was comfortable and attractive, it had lovely grounds and the most qualified therapists, but there was nothing to do there, nothing to occupy his brain. The first day of group therapy he'd mentally deduced everyone in the room then lapsed into brooding silence. If he did bother to listen to the inmates, as he called them, he often reacted with snorts and eye rolls at their tearful confessions. Accordingly, he was not well liked by the other patients and spent his free time alone. With no work, no problems to solve it was impossible not to miss Sophie constantly. Without anything to take the edge off, the absence of her was once again a constant pain. It had grown dull, but still hurt.

"Do you want to talk about her?" His therapist asked in their private session for the fourth time since he’d been there.

Sherlock usually ignored the doctor and retreated into his mind palace. This time he said, "No."

"How about we talk about your pain? What made you start medicating the pain?"

"I wasn't medicating pain. I was thinking."

"Being high helped you think? I must admit that's a new one. Tell me more about that."

Sherlock glared at him. "It doesn’t matter does it? All you're paid to do is get me to stop taking them. I’m no longer interested in manipulating the workings of my mind with the effects of drugs, therefore I’m cured."

The doctor smiled sadly. "It’s not that simple."

"No, really, for me it is."

"Your tremors say otherwise."

 _Transport,_  Sherlock thought sourly and closed his eyes and went to Sophie's room in his mind palace.

He was packing her away. The memories of her were cradled lovingly in beautiful boxes and placed on shelves in a room that looked much like a cleaner, brighter version of her studio. He had never bothered much with aesthetics in his mind palace but he wanted everything to do with her to be as lovely as it would have been if she'd made it herself. The only thing not made beautiful was the collection of evidence in the investigation of her disappearance. It was there, but in plain cardboard boxes on the floor. He didn't want to think about that too much. He didn't dare open them lest he fall back down the rabbit hole. 

……………………………………...

Once he'd made enough progress to be allowed to have visitors, his parents came with Mycroft. Sherlock submitted to his mother's and father's embraces but refused to look at his brother. He promised that he wouldn't try to escape on the condition they didn't come back until he was ready to leave. Mycroft had the decency to remain silent.

A few days later Lestrade came to see Sherlock. The detective barely recognized him. A short black cap of hair covered Sherlock's pale skull and his eyes were empty. He was incredibly thin and his cheekbones looked like they might come right through his skin.

Sherlock showed no surprise at his presence. “What do you need help with today?” He felt a tiny glimmer of hope that the man had brought him a photo of a suspect, a problem to solve.

"Nothing, mate. Came to see how you were getting along."

Disappointed, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, looking him up and down. "You've had a promotion. Scotland Yard?"

"How did you...?” Lestrade grinned and shook his head. “You look…well," he lied and looked around the room. "This is a rather posh rehab, I had no idea..."

Sherlock sighed and looked utterly bored.

"Look, Sherlock, I know we're not friends or anything but you've got a lot of talent. Stick with this.” He gestured around the room. “Get back to your life or a better version of it. Maybe you could come work at the Yard."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Are you done with your pep talk?" he sneered.

“Yeah. I guess I am.” Lestrade said looking disappointed. “Here's my card. When you're out, come look me up. We’ll have a pint…uh, if that’s allowed.”

Sherlock merely looked at him and the detective sighed and left.

Once he was gone Sherlock memorized the information on the card and crushed it into the palm of his hand.

………………………………………….

It was a beautiful, dewy spring when rehab declared Sherlock ready. Though he had refused to fully participate in therapy, he no longer showed physical signs of withdrawal and had been relatively well-behaved. He was eating again, though not as much as he should, and was able to sleep some. The night before his departure, he went into Sophie's room in his mind palace. He touched the boxes lovingly, making sure everything was in its place. Then he closed the room's heavy door and locked its three strong locks. There was no sign on the door with her name, only a picture of a dandelion. 

The next morning a sleek black car pulled up to the door and he got in. He did not look back.

 


	36. Chapter 36

Mycroft had set up a job for Sherlock at a lab in London working on some rather banal research. He had found him a flat nearby and had all his things moved. Sherlock was required to attend a meeting for recovering addicts once a week and his accounts had been frozen to keep him on a tight leash. He was given an allowance that could, of course, be taken away should he behave badly. Previously all this control over his life would have irritated Sherlock to the extreme, in fact it would have been untenable. But he was empty and hollow and did as he was told like an automaton.

He assumed he was being watched and followed everywhere he went but it made no difference. He went to work dutifully every day and his meeting every week. That the work and the schedule were boring was irrelevant. That he was alone in the teaming city of millions was all the better. He needed this carefully cultivated dullness to help him feel nothing. It was easier to control his emotions when his world was gray and uninteresting. 

 …………………………………….

One very early Saturday morning he ventured back to the homeless camp. The sun had only just begun to fill the eastern sky with a rosy glow and everyone was still asleep. He stood in the place where he'd lain in a drug-induced stupor for so many nights. Looking at the wall where he'd mapped out his theories on Sophie's disappearance all he saw were the ravings of a madman. It looked like a dire warning, written just for him, of how far he could fall again if he were not careful.

"Sherlock?"

He turned to see James standing behind him. 

"How are you?" the man asked him.

"Better."

"Good. That's good." Neither man could think of anything else to say for a few awkward moments.

"How are...things?" Sherlock asked finally, looking around the camp.

"Well, we survived another winter. Fuzzy got arrested a few weeks back. Got caught trying to nick some politician's wallet. I don't think we'll be seeing him anytime soon." 

Sherlock looked back at the wall. After a moment he cleared his throat. "Thank you." He cut his eyes at James. "For...you know. You and Doris probably kept me alive. Tell her, will you?" 

James smiled. "Of course. Are you going to be OK?"

"I think so."

"What will you do now?"

"Forget and keep forgetting. And keep going. Find something to do to keep me busy so that I can."

"Well, I wish you luck with that. Do come see us once in a while. I know Doris would be happy to see you as well."

"I have a feeling our paths will cross again," said Sherlock. Shaking James' hand in farewell, he strode off. 

Later that day a fish and chips truck pulled up to the homeless camp and provided a free hot dinner and coffee to everyone who wanted it. James and Doris smiled at each other and silently wished Sherlock well.

………………………………………...

In his free time Sherlock wandered the city, walking London until his soles wore out. He was making a mental map of the ancient city's alleys and side streets as he discovered them. It was methodical and logical, requiring no emotion. It was something to do. One day he came across a row of run down tenements just as an ambulance was pulling away. There were a number of police cars parked outside the building with their lights flashing and police tape had been strung around the perimeter. He paused a moment when he saw someone he recognized. It was Lestrade. 

Their eyes met across the chaos and he waved distractedly at Sherlock, then seemed to think a moment, and gestured him over. 

"So you're a free man again?" he asked with a grin.

"In some respects," answered Sherlock cryptically.

"It's not pleasant but would you care to take a look?" he asked jerking a thumb at the building behind him. When Sherlock nodded, he pulled up the tape and let him cross into the crime scene. "Nothing exciting, really. It looks to be a death by natural causes. An elderly woman who lived alone. Nosy neighbors found her…after a week or so."

Sherlock could tell that by the smell that hit them like a wall when they crossed the threshold. Lestrade covered his nose with a handkerchief. A forensic team was on hand taking photographs of the scene and bagging evidence. The small flat was a riot of floral patterns on the wallpaper, chairs and rugs. Dusty porcelain and crystal knickknacks cluttered every horizontal surface.

"Where was she found?" Sherlock asked, forcing down the urge to gag. 

"Sitting at the kitchen table."

"Was she Russian?"

"Yes, she was. How did you know that?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "Are you sure she wasn't murdered for the inheritance?" he asked.

Lestrade laughed at that. "Sure, look around. She was worth millions."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrade's lack of understanding. "I _am_ looking around. Are you?" 

Lestrade realized he was serious. "Aw, come on, Sherlock. She was living on subsidies and could barely make the rent on a tenement in an unsafe neighborhood. By all accounts this place is run by run by a slum lord who never fixes anything. Besides, as far as we know there are no relatives."

"There are always relatives. Especially where Fabergé eggs are concerned."

"Fabergé…what? Sherlock have you lost it?"

Around the room, the clues stood out like beacons for Sherlock. Like those thought-sparks when he was high. His heartbeat quickened and for the first time in a while he felt, not happy exactly, but not dead either. 

"Look around, Lestrade. _Observe._ Most of the bric-a-brac in here is junk from a charity shop, but some of these items once belonged to the Russian royal family and haven't been seen since the early 1900s." He pointed at a gilded egg on a delicate wire stand which on first glance looked like a gaudy piece of junk. On closer examination, it was an intricately enameled with flowers and scrolls in gold relief.

"That thing?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

"That 'thing' is the Alexander III Commemorative egg. It's worth millions."

"Christ." Lestrade let out an exhale of astonishment and rubbed a hand over his jaw. "But why kill her? Why wouldn't they just rob the place?"

"Because robbing someone who obviously has nothing to steal will cause suspicion. Better to act like a distant relative put out about having to clean up after a batty old aunt they supposedly never met. No questions, no inheritance taxes."

"I'll call Barts and tell them to take extra care with the autopsy."

"I have a better idea," Sherlock said and the ghost of a smile played across his lips.

…………………………………………………..

Outside Lestrade offered Sherlock a lift in a squad car. Sherlock took one look at it and shuddered remembering the last time he'd been in one.

"I don't ride in police cars. I'll take a cab. Meet you there."

Shaking his head, Lestrade sighed and started the engine.

…………………………………...............

"You sure about this, Lestrade? She was deceased for a while before being discovered," asked St Bartholomew's Hospital's head pathologist, Mike Stamford.

"Well, I'm not so sure _I_ want to, but Sherlock would like to see the body," said Lestrade.

"But who is he?" whispered Mike, peering past Lestrade's shoulder at Sherlock.

Lestrade leaned in and muttered low, "Look, he's helped me in the past… He can see things like…let's just say he's got a special talent for observation." Sherlock's mouth quirked as he pretended to be examining a safety procedure chart on the wall by the door. He was practically bouncing on his toes with excitement.

"Well, I guess it'll be OK as long as you vouch for him."

"I do," said Lestrade and wondered just how crazy he was for doing so.

The body was rolled out and Sherlock took his time looking over poor deceased Miss Rybakov. Mike and Lestrade stood well away from the steel table and the odiferous body as Sherlock did his observing.

"How's the work load these days?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, we're still short-staffed. It's hard to interest students in working the morgue but we've got a couple of bright young things starting rotation next week. I don't know but they'll add to the workload instead of helping, but I always enjoy trying to enlighten students to the wonders of pathology. Hopefully I can convince one to choose this as a career path."

"Good luck," chuckled Lestrade as he fanned away the odor of decay.

"If you two are done making small talk, I need use of a microscope and some other equipment," Sherlock demanded imperiously.

Mike raised his eyebrows at Lestrade.

"I know my way around a lab," Sherlock drawled by way of reassurance.

"Well, we'll just see about that," said Mike with a small smile. He put Sherlock through his paces, asking his credentials and quizzing him on various obscure anatomy questions and safe lab procedures. Sherlock answered everything impeccably and with a patience that Mike Stamford would not have the luxury of witnessing often.

It was unusual, perhaps illegal, for him to be in the path lab but Mike was genuinely intrigued by Sherlock. Being a teacher at heart it pleased him to see someone so interested in the usually off-putting work of the morgue. He gave Sherlock most of what he requested and took tissue and blood samples from the body for him to work with. He watched as Sherlock bent over the microscope, noting his careful attention to detail and expert knowledge of the equipment. He seemed thoroughly at ease in the lab.

Sherlock was so engrossed, he didn't notice Lestrade leave. He barely looked up from his work until Mike told him it was time to go home. At the stricken look on Sherlock's face, Mike assured him he could return the next day as long as he was discreet.

............

That night, instead of lying in bed staring at the ceiling working on his mind map of London, Sherlock replayed his day. He was still aglow with the joy of doing real lab work again, of having a problem to solve—no, a _mystery_ to solve. A mystery that didn't involove pain or emotional upheaval on his part. It was bloody glorious.

Sherlock didn't report for work at his place of employment the next day. Or the next. _No more dull,_ he vowed.  _No more gray._  

Mycroft was waiting for him one day when he came home, black umbrella across his knees. "What are you doing, Sherlock? We had an agreement."

"No, you gave an edict. I never agreed to it. This is what I want to be doing."

"It's so…pedestrian. It's beneath you. Why don't you train as an agent? It will be much more in tune with your abilities." 

"And have you for a boss? You'd like that. I wouldn't, so, _no_. Now if you'll go, I have things to do that I actually want to be doing."

Mycroft grimaced and left him without another word. Outside on the landing he paused and the corner of his mouth quirked into a smile. He was glad to see a spark of life in Sherlock again even if he wasn't so enamored of the career direction he'd chosen. At least it was a direction and he was once again moving toward something.

Inside the small flat Sherlock was considering job titles. Private eye? Too American television. Consulting copper? Too alliterative and he didn't wanted to be associated with the police. Consulting...detective? _Yes, that could work._

 


	37. Chapter 37

John Watson had grown very used to the weight of the gun in his pocket, he carried it everywhere since the Magnussen incident. He couldn't shake the feeling that someone from Mary's past might discover her new identity and come after her. It would be a long while before he stopped seeing an enemy around every corner. Still, with metal detectors everywhere these days it did make it a bit harder to go places. Luckily for John he knew a back way into Bart's. 

Heading through the corridors he pondered the events of the last two days. Finding out that not only was Sherlock not asexual but had had a real relationship with a real woman was quite a shock. As he got used to the idea he felt a conflicting mixture of happiness and sorrow at the thought that Sherlock had known the love of a woman only to lose her. Sophie had gone from being his first love to Sherlock's first and most important case. A case he hadn't been able to solve.

Having a wife he'd nearly lost, John could understand some of the pain Sherlock must have experienced. Being Sherlock's best friend, he also understood just how difficult it must have been for him to cope with that pain given he didn't handle even average emotions all that well. And Sherlock hated to lose, hated not solving the problems he was presented with. Was it any wonder Sophie's disappearance had sent his life into a downward spiral? 

Swinging through the lab doors, John came to a screeching halt at the sight of Molly Hooper nearly enveloped in Sherlock's ubiquitous black coat along with the man himself. The consulting detective's eyes were closed, his arms were around Molly, chin resting on her head. John could only see Molly's profile but it was clear that she was troubled. The Molly he knew would have looked overjoyed to be in Sherlock's embrace. The Sherlock he knew—thought he knew—wasn't exactly a hugger, but he looked perfectly at ease with the prolonged human contact he was receiving. Unless he was pretending.  _He better not be pretending with her or I will kill him. For real this time._

"Ahem," he said, calling their attention, his eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline. "Everything OK in here?" he asked, giving Sherlock a pointed look.  

"Of course, John," Sherlock drawled as Molly hastily stepped out of his arms and around the lab bench.

"How is Mary?" Molly asked as brightly as she could manage.

"She's better, thank you. She's at home resting," John said, flicking his eyes curiously between the two of them as he shrugged off his coat and folded it over a stool. "Any leads on the case?"

Molly glanced at Sherlock and away again.

"No," answered Sherlock, looking away. He put his hands in his pockets and leaned heavily against the bench behind him.

"Really?" John was surprised.

"The tox screen isn't back yet," Molly hastened to defend Sherlock. "I'm sure that will help."

Sherlock said nothing. John knew him well enough to see he was exhausted. He shifted his weight uneasily, feeling especially helpless and guilty that he hadn't been around to be of more help. "I'm going to call Mary and check in and grab a coffee upstairs. Want some as well?"

"Yes, John. Please." Molly glanced nervously at the silent Sherlock. "Two." 

John quirked a small, apologetic smile at her and nodded. He left them alone again in awkward silence. 

Molly's email alert chimed and she walked over to her desk, relieved to have something to do. Frowning, she studied the words on the computer screen. "Oh, it's the toxicology results. I'll print them…"

Sherlock bolted upright and headed toward the printer at the back of the room.

Puzzled, Molly stared at the report on her monitor, muttering, "I've never seen a combination of chemicals like this before. Why would…?"

Meanwhile, Sherlock snatched the paper from the printer and squinted at it. His eyes widened. "It can't be."

"What is it?" Molly watched, wary, as his face went from astonished to furious. His eyes were frightening to behold. "Sherlock? Tell me."

He closed his eyes and his forehead creased as if he were in pain. "The bloody fool. It wasn't _musical_ instruments and an anarchy symbol on the trunk. It was _medical_ instruments and a biohazard symbol."

"What are you talking about? What trunk?"

Sherlock blinked at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. "I have to go," he bit out, letting the tox report fall to the floor.

"Sherlock!"  _Talk to me._

His only reply was the sound of his footsteps leaving the lab. Molly picked up the discarded paper and stared down at the numbers and words trying to see what he had seen. 

 

A few moments later, John carefully backed through the swinging doors balancing three coffees. He looked around. "Where’s Sherlock?"

"He…he’s gone. He looked at the tox results and got angry…furious...and left. John, I'm worried."

"It'll be OK, Molly. He must have figured it out. I'll find him." John put down the coffees and grabbed his coat to run after Sherlock. He paused mid-step with a strange look on his face. “Hang on...” His coat felt light—too light. He reached into the inner pocket and his face blanched. “My gun...Oh, no. _Not again.”_

Molly's eyes went round. "What do you mean, not again?"

Clearly panicked, John ignored her question and asked, "Did he say where he was going?"

Molly felt as though someone had poured ice water down her back. "He took your gun, didn't he? Why would he take your gun, John? What do you mean—"

"I have to go after him—"

"No! You have to tell me what you mean," Molly cried desperately.

"Molly, I can't. There's no time."

She grabbed his arm and with a fierce voice said, "John Watson, I'm sleeping with Sherlock. Did you know that?" Tears sprang to her eyes at the shock on his face and she began to babble. "I don't know if we're…if it's a relationship or not. I don't know what's going on. It was all so new and then  _she_  showed up and I don't know where things stand. I feel like I'm losing him before I even had a chance to really have him, you know? He won't tell me anything. But you will tell me, John." The fierce voice returned and she shook him a little by the arm. "You will tell me what the bloody hell you mean by 'not again.'"

John had a temper but he was never cruel. Still, a dark thought sprang to his mind, _See how it feels to kept in the dark about Sherlock?_ He instantly felt guilty. He thought he was over Sherlock's faked death but evidently he was still holding a bit of a grudge. Sighing in defeat, he realized Sherlock was probably long gone anyway.

"Let me send a quick text," he said. When he was finished he sat a distraught Molly down on a stool and gripped her upper arms. She held on to him, too, as if preparing for the earth to tilt. "Magnussen…do you remember the story about him in the papers? How he was murdered at his home and they never found the killer."

Molly nodded, perplexed.

"It was Sherlock…Sherlock did it."

In shock, Molly released John. All she could think was,  _NO._

 

Other than the part about Mary, John told her everything and after he left, Molly sat in the empty lab processing what he'd said. Sherlock had killed someone. Had killed Magnussen. Had shot him point blank in the head. She knew better than most what that does to a person. Sometimes it's a clean in and out, but sometimes through a quirk of anatomy the trajectory of the bullet can be interrupted causing the bullet to ricochet inside the skull, scrambling the brain. Regardless, it was a very effective way to end a life. 

She shuddered remembering the part about how they'd almost sent him away forever as punishment and she hadn't had a clue. She was in her "avoiding Sherlock" phase at the time. Maybe he'd needed her and she wasn't there for him. He could have died and she never would have known what happened to him. No wonder his iron-clad defenses had crumbled after all that. No wonder he'd finally given in to his cravings for love and comfort.

But could she ever trust him again? It was one thing to be strange and mysterious, it was quite another to be a killer. She definitely had strong opinions on murderers. Did the fact that Sherlock had done it to protect his friends make it any better? Was it any excuse? And now he was possibly murdering the person who killed his first love while Molly was sitting in the lab worrying about him. She bitterly thought that cats didn't complicate one's life so much. Other than their potential to trip you going down the stairs or torture you with allergies you could plan on being safe around one. Perhaps being single was lonely, but it was definitely easier than this. It certainly hurt less than this.

With a shaky resolve, Molly picked up her phone, opened her message app and began to type.

……………………………………….. 

Sherlock had rented a car—trains were too slow—and driven back to the small university town he hadn't seen in years. It wasn't a very long drive but it had given him time to think and very unpleasant thoughts those were.

Heart pounding in his ears, Sherlock sat in the parked car looking at the little house that marked the end of his journey. It was so ordinary—a cottage really—with a neat fence and lovely garden, though the lawn had gotten a bit overgrown. In that little house was a killer. Out in the car, looking at the house, was another one.

Sophie had once, in a naive sort of way, called Sherlock dangerous. He had eventually grown into a man who truly lived up to the descriptor. He was deadly and he was angry and he was filled with a dark desire for vengeance. Everything he'd learned over the years about methods of killing and hiding bodies and evidence coupled with his natural genius made him, he knew, quite capable of the perfect murder. He wanted blood—on his hands, between his teeth, whatever it took. Sherlock practiced breathing in an attempt to calm down the emotions which felt like a snarling beast within him.

He began to plan to do next when his phone rang. He answered it with a sigh.

"I know you know who killed Sophie," intoned Mycroft.

Silence.

"Sherlock, don't kill him. _Please._ I cannot save you again."

"Maybe I don't want to be saved anymore."

"I'm sure Miss Hooper will disappointed to hear that."

Sherlock took a shuddering breath. "Mycroft, I'm no good to her. Or anyone. I'm a bomb waiting to explode."

"No, Sherlock. You are a key to many locks and very needed. By all of us. I will make sure this person is punished. For once allow me to help you."

Sherlock paused then said, "Goodbye, Mycroft."

As he hung up a call came through from John. Sherlock cursed under his breath and sent it to voicemail. _Go back to Mary and your lovely life John._

Then came a text. He rolled his eyes and huffed then saw it was from Molly and rather long. Sherlock hesitated a moment then read it. As he did so, his face fell.


	38. Chapter 38

Finished with his phone for the moment, Sherlock slipped it into his pocket and resumed staring at the front of the house as a thousand thoughts spun in his head. When Sherlock had read the tox report it was like all the false starts and wrong turns he'd taken looking for Sophie smoothed into a flat path that led straight to one person. The chemical combination in her body was one Sherlock hadn't thought of in a long while, but he recognized it immediately. He had created it himself. The formula was designed to preserve body tissues from being damaged by ice crystals—an unwanted and disastrous side effect of cryopreservation. And he knew exactly who'd put it in Sophie.

He would have felt murderous toward whomever had killed Sophie, but this was worse, far worse than he'd ever imagined. Made more horrible by the fact that it all seemed so obvious now. He felt like a failure for having missed the clues all those years ago. He had focused on those who might want to hurt Sophie, not people who wanted to hurt him. And not someone with whom he'd once worked so closely.

On the house before him was a post box bearing a brass plate that read Dr. S. Timmons. He'd once been professor and mentor to Sherlock when he was a student assisting him in his cryogenics research. Not much older than Sherlock, he'd been handsome, charismatic and brilliant. Timmons had found success early and skyrocketed to notoriety with his research, landing a prestigious position at the university's science department where he was given free rein and a generous budget to carry out his projects. 

Sherlock's stomach clenched as the beast within clawed for release.  _I could find a freezer somewhere and put him in it, let him die slowly. No, too complicated and not painful enough._ Sherlock blinked and found himself standing right outside Timmons' door. His fingers traced the gun in his pocket. _First I could shoot off his kneecaps, then one in the belly. It takes a long, painful while to die from a gut shot._

He swung the door open without knocking and stepped into the small sitting room. Timmons was waiting for him in a chair by the window. It was obvious he'd been watching Sherlock the entire time he'd been lingering in the car, struggling with his emotions.

"Hello, Sherlock," he said lightly.

"Steven."

"You're looking well. I've been waiting for you. A long, long time. Tea?" He gestured to the teapot on a small table beside him.

Sherlock ignored the offer and clenched his fists in his pockets. His entire body hummed with the desire to kill the man sitting before him. "Why did you do it?"

"Oh, no small talk for me then,” Steven chuckled. He slowly shifted to a new position in his chair. “Do sit down, this will take some time." Once Sherlock was seated across from him he said simply, "I did it for you of course."

Sherlock blinked. "Me?"

"Yes. To bring you back. To help you to greatness."

Sherlock looked genuinely confused.

"Our bloody research, you fool. How could you give all that up for a _girl? "_ Timmons spat. "We were so alike. Both of us brilliant, both of us driven. I'd never worked with such an intelligent, dedicated student. You were at my level if not higher—focused, insightful, creative. It was a miracle two individuals with minds like ours were born in the same generation. There was nothing that we couldn't have accomplished together. Did you know I had started talking to investors? That the university administrators were behind the research—they were eager for the possibility of lucrative patents. You and I were going to be wealthy and famous. We could have changed the world, but you walked away like none of it mattered. No one could replicate what you'd done. All your notes were in your bloody head," he said tapping his own skull.

Frowning, Sherlock replied, "I was _never_ interested in money or fame. How was killing Sophie going to change that?"

Timmons looked down and casually picked a bit of lint from his trousers. "I had planned to wait until the right moment, to get you alone…I was going to tell you about what I'd done and lure you back to finish the formula to save her."

Sherlock's mouth fell open in shock. "I couldn't have saved her, we were never successful—"

"We were close, dammit!" Timmons exploded. "You were on the cusp of a breakthrough when you walked out on me. Your last formula was the closest we’d ever come. I used the last of it on her. She was young, and alive, not like those shriveled mummies they gave us to work with. How can you revive something that’s already dead? We needed a healthy, living test subject like her. I did everything perfectly just like you did on the rat you revived—"

“That was a rat not a human! And it died the next day. We were no where near ready for human testing.”

Timmons' face turned sour as he huffed and looked away.

Even now, even though every pore of his body screamed at him to kill Timmons, he still had to know how he'd done it. "How did you abduct her?"

"Would you believe she came along willingly?" Timmons smiled.

 _I could dig a pit and bury him alive, head last, so he can scream and scream as he watches each shovelful of dirt fall on him._ "No, I would never believe that."

"Ah, well. After our last conversation together where I tried to convince you to come back, I passed her in the corridor. She was on her way to see you. I eavesdropped on your conversation and it was easy to figure out the rest when you have access to student records. I made sure to be on the train at the right time, the right day. We shared a compartment and had a pleasant chat about the book she was reading—she remembered me, you see, from the lab. Yes, we had a nice talk while the police were clearing poor Mr. Brown's hands from the tracks."

"That was you as well?"

Timmons smirked.

"Did you...hurt her?" Sherlock's voice shook and he gripped the gun tighter, fighting the urge to pull it out and fill Timmons' head with holes.

The professor looked affronted. "No, it was never about that. I was very professional. She never even felt the needle go in—that’s the power of distraction. Put her in a trunk and had her back to the lab and in stasis before she ever woke up. There was no terror, no struggle. No one saw a thing."

 _I could beat him to death. Bludgeon him until he's unidentifiable._ "How?"

"Well… _you_ helped me, actually. Remember that date rate drug you'd been investigating? You rather foolishly left samples of it lying around the lab. In the hands of silly boys the concotion was a blunt instrument. After some tweaking by me, it was the perfect tool. I shaped it into something that would make her highly susceptible to suggestion—it was like liquid hypnosis. I suggested that there was a bomb threat and we should leave the train. She agreed. I led her to the back platform and suggested she step into the trunk I had waiting to keep her safe from any explosions. She hesitated only a moment and when she lay down I suggested that she relax and take a nap. She completely trusted me. I stepped back on the train to make sure no one had seen anything then got off again and wheeled her away. I later sold that formula to the military and bought this house. Which was a good thing because _you_ fell apart. You turned into a madman trying to find her. See what love can do to you? Oh, and I heard about the drugs. Tsk tsk. Destroying your brain like that. Months turned to years and I gave up hope. What a waste. My career was essentially ruined. The university was embarrassed by my failure to deliver the lucrative patents they'd been banking on and bragging about to other institutions. They pulled my funding and forced me onto other projects, but I kept working on my own time. _And I kept her._ " He crossed his arms over his chest defiantly.

Sherlock flexed his fingers. _I could strangle him with my bare hands. I could make it take a long time._ "It would have taken, what an hour? Two? To cool her body and start to replace her blood with the solution? You sat and watched all that time, knowing you were killing her." He swallowed the lump in his throat and said through his teeth, "I would never have helped you. If you had told me what you had done to Sophie I would have killed you." 

"No, you would have killed yourself trying to save her and you would have needed my help," Timmons said smugly.

Sherlock's logic began to falter. _Maybe it would have worked. Maybe if I hadn't gone so mad with grief I could have saved her._  "Did you even try to revive her?"

For the first time a look of regret flashed across Timmons' face and was gone. "How could I? I was alone. I would have needed you and a surgical theatre and equipment I no longer had access to."

"Why now? Why take her out of vitrification and lure me now?"

"I'm dying." Timmons said simply. "Inoperable brain tumor. You doomed me in more than one way when you walked away. If we'd been successful in our research I could go into stasis and be awoken when a cure had been found. My health problems forced me to retire so I had to do a little...house cleaning. Had to do something with her so I made an anonymous after-hours donation to the anatomy department. Figured she'd be all divided up soon and no one would be the wiser."

Sherlock felt bile rise in his throat. _Yes, divide him, chop him into many pieces starting with his fingers. Dispose of the evidence._ "Oh, of course you wanted to get away with it, that's why you carved my name on her stomach," spat Sherlock. "You _wanted_ me to find you."

Timmons chuckled. "So clever, so clever. I see the drugs didn’t harm you too much, though now you’re some sort of detective so I suppose some damage was done." He smiled and shrugged. "I wanted you to find me to give you the gift of revenge. I despise this withering away, if I must die it may as well come quickly..." 

The gun in Sherlock's pocket had grown warm under his hand like something alive and deadly waiting to be called into action. He didn't want Timmons to die quickly. He wanted him to suffer and scream and beg. He wanted to kill him and bring him back and kill him again. He had all the knowledge to do it, too. He looked at the man who had killed Sophie and sent his life reeling out of control. 

"You think I would kill you quickly? You killed the woman I loved. She did more for me than you ever did and the loss of her nearly destroyed me. And you did it for what? Greed? Ambition?" Sherlock stood and pulled something from his pocket and said, "I have no mercy for you." The object he held was not a gun, it was a phone. "But I won't kill you—quickly or slowly." He hit send on a pretyped text: _I'm ready._

Timmons frowned. "You coward," he said with a sneer. "You abandoned greatness for a girl you supposedly loved so much but now you can't even avenge her?"

Sherlock glared at him. The tinderbox of hate and rage was still there but he couldn't find a spark to ignite it. The mystery of Sophie had been solved and it wouldn’t bring her back. "I will always love her but she's gone. Killing you would bring pain to others that I love and I won't do that. Not again. Your ride will be here soon. Enjoy spending what time you have left in prison." 

He scoffed. "They'll never send a dying man to prison. I'll spend the rest of my life in a convalescent home with nurses waiting on me hand and foot."

"Either way, I'm thankful for the cancer that's rotting your brain. I hope it tortures you until the very end." Red lights flashed across Sherlock's face from the police car outside the front window. "Goodbye, Dr. Timmons." He stepped out onto the porch to let the officers pass.

Timmons sat bitterly in his chair as the police officers entered, then shouted, "It's your fault she's dead Sherlock Holmes. She probably won't be the last."

Sherlock winced but walked to his car without looking back.

He sat in the car watching as the police loaded Dr. Steven Timmons in the squad car and drove away. The adrenaline had drained out of him and left him shivering. He felt strangely proud of himself though there would always be a part of him that regretted that he couldn't personally end the man that had killed Sophie and caused him so much pain. He took out his phone and reread the long text Molly had sent, the text that had derailed all his plans. 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I know you are angry and I know what you are capable of. John told me everything. I realize this is a difficult time but I have another impossible question for you. Could you please not kill whomever it was that took Sophie from you? You have every right to feel whatever it is you're feeling toward this person and I am well aware first love is a BIG thing. Powerful. I know, you see, because YOU are my first love. You are my only love. I've loved you from the first day you walked into the morgue and demanded I surrender my microscope to you. I loved you even when I knew you were manipulating me in order to get body parts. I never stopped loving you the two years you were gone. I will still love you if you kill this person, but I don't think I could be with you anymore. And that will break me. I hope that if you care for me, even a little, you will not want to hurt me with the loss of you as you were hurt with the loss of Sophie. Please, please don't do that to me, Sherlock. Please come back to me. I know I'm being greedy and thinking only of what I want, but I promise if you come back I will give you, do for you, whatever you want. I have no shame, no pride, I am begging you with all my heart. I just want you._

_Love, Molly_

This time when Sherlock finished reading, he smiled.

 

 


	39. Chapter 39

After Timmons had been taken away Sherlock had wanted nothing more than to go home and wrap himself around Molly, but Sophie's parents needed to know what had happened and he wanted to tell them in person.

He drove back to their hotel in London and told them everything. When he was finished Sophie's father stood shakily and left the room. Her mother looked a little relieved, but mostly incredibly sad. After Sherlock said his farewells he did something very unusual for him—he headed for the hotel bar and ordered a scotch. His hand shook a little as he lifted the glass to his lips. His eyes closed as the alcohol burned all the way down to his stomach. Feeling a tug on his sleeve he opened his eyes to find Sophie's mother standing beside him with a sad smile on her face. 

“I'm glad I found you, Sherlock. I won’t keep you, but I wanted to give you this." She handed him a white box and when he felt its weight he knew what it was. "Hendry wouldn’t come, he agreed to this but…his pride kept him away. Despite what he's said in the past, he blames himself more than he does you and…he doesn’t handle emotions well.”

Sherlock nodded. He could empathize with that.

"We had Sophie for 20 years, but she belonged to you at the end. I may not sound like much of a mother but I laid her to rest in my heart long ago. It's time for you to put her to rest." She touched the box reverently. "She loved you. She told me on that last trip home and I’d never seen her so happy. I know you loved her, too. I'm sorry for what it cost you."

Sherlock looked at the box in his hand. All he could say was, "I'll take care of her." _This time._

She patted his hand and shuffled back toward the elevators.

…………………………………..

The sun was sinking low in the sky as Sherlock drove through the English countryside without seeing its beauty. Occasionally he glanced at the small white box sitting on the passenger seat. He found it incredible that a person who was once as big as the world to him could be reduced to so little.

Sherlock parked the car outside the stone church, took out the box and headed for the tool shed. He paused at the building’s porch and remembered the kiss he and Sophie had shared there long ago.

He picked the lock on the shed and took out a shovel then crossed the cemetery until he came to the black marble marker that bore his name. The village had requested it remain because it was a curiosity that interested tourists. Mycroft thought it in poor taste but Sherlock had never cared much about taste. He set the box down and began to dig.

"May I help?" Asked a voice behind him.

Sherlock didn't turn around. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

"Saying goodbye. Despite initial misgivings I was…fond...of Sophie and I'm sorry this happened to her…and to you."

Sherlock stepped back and waited while Mycroft shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Neither spoke as he made the small hole deeper. "Enough?" he asked.

"Yes." Sherlock put the box in the hole and threw a handful of dirt on top. "Sentiment," he said softly, ruefully.

"Ritual," said Mycroft. He tossed in a handful of soil. "Closure."

Sherlock filled the remaining void with soil and smoothed it with the shovel. "I'm sorry…for all of it. And for how it affected you."

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "Me?"

"Maybe Mark would have stayed if you hadn't been so preoccupied with trying to get me clean and sane again."

Mycroft shrugged. "Ancient history."

Sherlock looked away across the fields and hills toward where the standing stones sat immovable and silent.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I have something for you at my house. Will you come?"

"Yes. You go ahead and I'll be along."

Mycroft nodded and picked up his jacket. Turning on his heel, he left Sherlock alone in the graveyard.

When Sherlock had seen Sophie's face in the morgue, her door in his mind palace had flown open and all those buried memories came pouring out as fresh and painful as they'd been years ago. Though his eye sockets felt too tight and his chest hurt, no tears would come as he stood watch over the grave. He made no eloquent speech like John did after the fall, but gazed silently at the small pile of dirt at his feet. He couldn’t even compose a complete sentence to say to Sophie. "I’m sorry," "if only," "why?" and "I love you" were combined in one silent scream of loss that echoed down the halls of his mind. It was time close the door, her door, on that for good.

After the media had revealed Sherlock's death had been faked, people assumed the decoy grave was empty. But he knew the old Sherlock, the man he was before the fall, lay at rest there. A man who'd opened himself to love and nearly come undone. A broken man who'd slowly risen again. A lonely man who'd opened himself to friendship then allowed an enemy to nearly destroy him to save those friends. He wanted to put all that behind him, to start again. He chose to view it all as trial and error—a decades-long experiment in emotions, in living. He wasn't quite whole, but he was getting there—would get there with help from those who loved him. He would never forget her, but Sophie belonged to the man he was, not the man he'd become. He pictured the old Sherlock lying below the ground with Sophie in his arms. Now neither of them would be alone. It made him smile.

……………………………………..

"Please have a seat," drawled Mycroft when Sherlock entered his study.

It was rare for Sherlock to be invited to Mycroft's home. The Holmes family cottage had been sold years ago but Mycroft had bought and restored a small manor house not far from the stone church. Though he was curious as to why his brother had called him there, he carefully cultivated a look of boredom as he sat down and watched Mycroft pull a flat package from his safe.

"I didn't give you this after Sophie disappeared because you were so distracted by your attempts to find her and later you were...in no condition to receive it and take care of it. After you were clean, I thought it best not to have any reminders..."

Sherlock's heart pounded. It was something of Sophie’s. "Just give it to me, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded and handed him a handsome leather portfolio and sat wearily behind his desk. Sherlock opened the cover to find a drawing of himself. His eyes were closed and he looked young and serene. Around his head like a halo were words written in a beautiful hand: "Sherlock is brilliant. Sherlock is moody. Sherlock rolls his eyes more than any person I've ever met. You know all these things already—what do you want me to say?" The paper was creased where it had obviously been folded to fit in an envelope. There was a stack of more drawings beneath it. Each was dated and signed by Sophie.

"What..?

"It's her surveillance of you. I asked her to write letters, she drew pictures instead. If she'd been an agent I would have dismissed her, but I eventually found them... entertaining. She had talent." He looked as if he wanted to say more, but framed his mouth in a sad smile instead.

The next page was titled "Sherlock's mind palace" and depicted a brain-shaped mansion with turrets and towers erupting from it and a protective moat around it filled with cacti. Sherlock turned to another page. On it was a richly colored sketch of a human heart. Written above it in large flowing letters was, "Today Sherlock gave me a heart."

His gut twisted and his eyes burned and he found he could not swallow. "Thank you," he choked out. Mycroft nodded and rose to his feet. He paused to briefly lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder then left him to his emotions.

Through all his grief and rage, frustration and longing for Sophie he had never broken down, never cried, but now the tears would not stop. He cried for all he and Sophie had lost. And he cried in relief that it was all over. He closed the portfolio so her work wouldn't be damaged, then sobbed onto the leather cover until he felt empty and light.

 


	40. Chapter 40

Molly rubbed her eyes and tried to focus on the paperwork in front of her. It was well after midnight and she wasn't even supposed to be on call tonight, but she couldn't sit idly at home—not with Sherlock out there. She had received a short text from him hours before saying he was coming back but would be delayed. She'd heard nothing since.

Molly looked up as the lab doors swung open and breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Sherlock! Are you...OK?" _Are we ok?_

"I am now," he said, but his eyes were red-rimmed and glassy and he looked ready to collapse. He pulled her into an embrace and stood leaning on her until he heard her stifle a sob.

"What's wrong, Molly?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm sorry," she said into his coat. "Mycroft told me this would be a hard time for you. He asked me to look after you but I couldn't reach you...couldn't do anything." She clutched at his lapels. "I feel like I let you down."

Sherlock stroked her hair. "No, Molly. You were the one who saved me. This whole ordeal sent me back to a place I never wanted to go again—a place where I was alone and desperate and had nothing left. I was ready to kill Timmons but I read your text and realized I still had much to lose."

"Oh," she breathed.

"Yes, 'oh,'" he sighed softly.

"Is there anything else I can do?" she asked gently, fearfully.

"Take me home."

"Home...?"

He leaned back and looked down at her. "Baker Street. I want it to be your home, too, Molly. When you're ready." His weary eyes held hers.

She blinked in surprise. "Oh...I'd like that, too...but, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

Molly took a deep breath. "When I agreed to 'whatever comes,' I thought that meant we’d face problems together. No more leaving me out. This was a special case, I know that. But no more, OK?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," he said seriously.

"OK." She beamed at him. "Shall we go?"

Sherlock nodded and waited in silence as she gathered her things.

"Would you tell me about her some time?" Molly asked timidly as they exited the lab hand in hand.

He smiled. "Yes. I'd like that."

 

………………………………………...

A few weeks later, Mycroft sat in the back of a sleek black car with a look of distaste on his face.

"Are you sure you don't want me to handle this for you, sir? I know you don't enjoy field work," Anthea asked.

"No," Mycroft smiled grimly at his assistant. "This is something I intend to do myself."

  

The steel door closed behind him and he sat across the table from the prisoner. "My name is Mycroft, Mr. Timmons, I'm here to bring you these. With your science background you should be able to decipher the information within." He slid some folders across to the sour-faced man and watched in silence as he read over them.

Timmon's handcuffs clinked against the table as he turned the pages. The prisoner's eyes grew large as he absorbed the information. "This research says that it's possible to operate on my tumor. That I may have a chance."

"Yes, from what I understand you have a particular distaste for mortality. This operation could give you those years you desperately long for."

The glimmer of hope that sparked in his eyes dimmed as he said, "What good does it do me if I'm locked up?"

"What indeed? It's a difficult choice is it not? Live longer but do so in prison. Escape those extra years in prison by letting the tumor take you, but then you'll be dead. I see the dilemma." Mycroft shook his head sympathetically and leaned forward. "Might I offer some advice? Go with the tumor, because trust me, you'll never get out of here while I'm alive." The coldness in his voice shook the prisoner.

Timmons narrowed his eyes. "Just who the bloody hell are you, Mr. Mycroft?"

"Oh, excuse me, Mycroft is my first name. My surname is Holmes. I'm Sherlock's brother."

“Oh-ho. So what? I’m not afraid of _you,_ big brother.”

“Well,” Mycroft drawled, “that’s just ignorance speaking.”

He smiled his cold not-smile and rose from his chair. "I want you to understand that just as you erased a young woman's future and my brother's happiness, I'm going to erase your past. You will have no kind of immortality. Your life's work, your research—all of it will be forgotten or credited to other, more worthy scientists. You will never be celebrated or studied. Your criminal record will be classified so you won't even be known as the murderer you are. And there will be no comfortable convalescent home with pretty nurses for you, you will die alone, in prison, in obscurity as if you never existed."

The color drained from Timmons' face. "You can't do that."

"It's already done." Mycroft straightened his already immaculate tie. "I'll leave the research with you. You'll need something to read during your stay."

Timmons scowled then smiled cruelly. "Sherlock will never forget me."

"I know." Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Why do you think I'm doing this?" He stepped out of the room to the sound of prisoner 43590 cursing and throwing the folders of research against the wall.

THE END

…………………………………….

Thank you so much for reading, my lovelies! Now that it's all done I plan (after a break) to go back through the entire story and clean it up a bit. No plot changes, just trying to correct some of my egregious grammar/punctuation and recraft  some sentences. I had no beta so I'm sure it needs much improvement. I also might— _MIGHT_ —write some extra chapters as separate short stories. Maybe a story about Sherlock's and Sophie's ride from the country back to university in Mycroft's car. Maybe something on how he met Molly, it depends…. Right now I'm just happy it's done—my first (and maybe only) fan fiction!! Yay!


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